Confessions
by Bastetian
Summary: Shane Schofield has to come to terms with a long hidden secret. Is he ready for his toughest challenge yet? Why is the man who could singlehandedly destroy a submarine or save the world from nuclear bombardment frightened of two small words?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello!

So you've found your way to my story… poor you. Warning, if you're looking for stories to satisfy your Matthew Reilly cravings whilst waiting an epically long time for a new scarecrow book, you're probably in the wrong spot. I cannot possibly attempt to write anything in the style of the impeccably talented Mr Reilly. Indeed, I suspect this story is truly a butchering of an incredible character but hey, my privilege as author, woo! I won't take up too much of your time but I feel this story does need a little explanation. I'm probably just projecting my own issues onto the poor scarecrow but hey, he just seemed too good and strong and perfect, made me wonder what he was hiding. Besides, the vulnerable, emotional side of him is hot too! If slashy themes (but no actual slash…yet.) offend you, please don't read this story. Feel free to hate it, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't flame me as I have enough self-esteem issues as is. One last note, this story is mostly cannon, set a while after Hell Island, only detail that I added that is hinted at but not blatantly stated is that Book and Juliet Janson are a couple, there's definitely chemistry between them in Area 7. Okay, I guess I can't really stall anymore, so on with the show. Read on at your own peril, it may be total trash, but (reasonably nice) reviews would help me improve! :p

Confessions

There was no room to deny it anymore, Shane Schofield was frightened. He felt such an explosive need to let this out and end all the lies and the hiding. He'd been psyching himself for weeks, planning and replaying this scene in his mind until it drove him mad. But all this couldn't change that one small fact, he was terrified.

"What's eating you?" The soft voice of Buck Riley Jr. interrupted his thoughts. Schofield turned, surprised. Book II, as he was affectionately known, stood in the shadow of the doorway to the small backyard that was Mothers. Shane hadn't even heard him approach.

"Come on, I've known you long enough to know when something bothering you. Now, talk to me." Book said more insistently when Schofield didn't reply. He felt so powerless, overwhelmed. The perfect opportunity had presented itself, the one he had been waiting for but now, when it really mattered, the man who could singlehandedly destroy a submarine or save the world from nuclear bombardment was utterly stumped by two small words.

Because saying it out loud would make it so irrevocably real, and he wasn't sure he was ready for that. Hell, it was only recently that he'd allowed himself to acknowledge these feelings in his mind. They'd always been there, a mixture of confusion and disgust, unnamed, like a festering wound spreading bitterness and self-loathing until he just couldn't take it any longer. Saying it out loud might bring some small measure of relief but it was fraught with dangers more difficult than any he'd ever faced before. Torn between the immensity of the task before him and fear of his present situation becoming the rest of his life, he stayed silent until Book said slowly "Okay. Why don't you come back inside? Have a drink; I'll introduce you to Marietta, Juliet's friend. She's had her eye on you all evening." He teased good naturedly.

Shane startled.

"What. No." The reaction was harsh and instinctive.

"You know, it's been a year, she wouldn't mind." Book continued gently, misinterpreting his abnormally angry response as outrage on his dead girlfriend's behalf. "In fact, I think she'd probably encourage you to keep on living."

Schofield turned away, almost laughing. Of course Book wouldn't understand. Nobody would understand because he was the Scarecrow, and the Scarecrow could not possible be… this. He almost cried tears of frustration. He was totally screwed and totally alone in this, his secret, shameful problem.

_But it's not meant to be a problem!_ A frustrated voice in his head replied. _Why can't I see that? Why can't they see that? _"Why does this have to be so damn hard?"1

He didn't realise he'd said that aloud until Book inquired; "What is?"

Schofield could hear the notes of concern lacing the other man's slow deep voice. He wouldn't be concerned if he knew, Schofield thought bitterly, he'd be disgusted. And secretly, Shane thought he'd have every right to be. Could he do it? Actually confide in this man, this supposed best friend of his. God, he wanted to, needed to. He turned to face Book with courage and desperation welling up inside of him and before he'd had time to think, rationalise and realise this was a terrible idea, it finally came out. "Book," he said, staring at his friend with newfound intensity but shaking hands.

"Book, I'm gay."

Even to himself, his voice sounded soft, almost lost on the night breeze but Schofield knew Book had heard because his face said it all. Predominantly shock, but there were other emotions there that Schofield did not want to read. The few seconds that followed felt like an eternity. Nothing had changed physically, the evening was still falling, the air was still cool and the lights of the party still glimmered through the window, and yet, everything had changed. Book broke the now awkward silence with an exhaled,

"whoa." Pause

"Um, yeah, whoa."

Eloquent as ever, Shane cursed. "Ah fuck, this isn't your problem. Forget I said anything. Don't ask, Don't tell and all that shit." Burying his hands in his pockets and unable to meet Book's eyes, he turned to get the hell outta there. He was stunned when a hand caught his shoulder and a gentle voice said, "wait."

That certainly stopped him. The small unexpected contact offered acceptance, even if he couldn't voice it and with it, Schofield was flooded with relief. Shane turned back bashfully, normally confident movements awkward. Unsure of what to do with his hands or where to look, he stared resolutely at the ground and fidgeted until Book spoke again.

"I'm sorry, that probably didn't help." He paused. "So, you're gay." His voice cracked a little on the last word as though his tongue was having difficulty twisting it around his teeth. "I'm cool with that and everything but you can't honestly tell me you didn't think I'd be surprised. After all, you and Libby were pretty serious. Are you sure, you know, about, being gay?"

The glare he received was answer enough.

"Shit, sorry, probably wasn't the right thing to say either." He backpedalled. "It's just; I'm having trouble understanding where Libby fits into this picture."

With that statement, fresh waves of guilt assuaged Schofield.

"She was a beard."

The confession was sharp and painful. Book nodded but offered no reply. Then, without a hint of judgement in his voice, he asked flatly "Did she know?"

"She suspected," Schofield replied, still staring at his feet. "But we never talked about it." He looked up sharply, straight into Books eyes, "I loved her, I really did. I would've married her, would've done right by her. Just, wasn't attracted to her." He could hear the attempt to justify his actions in his voice and even to his ears it sounded pathetic.

"So, you into any guys I know?" Came Book's surprising reply and before he could help himself, Schofield felt laughter bubble out of him.

"You don't want to be having this conversation with me."

"No your right, I don't." Book was laughing too. "But I'm really glad you told me. This can't have been easy on you. And most importantly, you need to know that you're still the scarecrow and I'm still your friend and the same goes for everyone in there," He jerked his head towards the window, "when you're ready to tell them. I love you man." He said somewhat clumsily. "In a platonic sense of course so don't go cracking on to me or anything." He added hastily.

Shane Schofield was stunned. He couldn't believe it all, the relief, the acceptance, the easy camaraderie. This had all gone much better than he could ever have anticipated.

"Don't worry," he snuffed a laugh, "you're not my type. And, thanks." He said simply.

"You know, your dad knew." He added as an afterthought as they moved towards the house.

"Really" Book II replied. "Come on, I think you need a beer." He said, clapping the other man's shoulder and smiling.

1. Okay, I might have semi borrowed this line, if you know where it's from then you're as much a loser as I am!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Sorry, I know this note is really long but it has important information in it.

When I was writing this chapter I realised that Scarecrow comes off a lot younger than in the books. Because it wasn't going to cause any major disruptions plot line wise and doesn't really affect cannon as his age is pretty irrelevant in the books I decided to leave it as is and have this scarecrow a bit younger.

So, for informative purposes, you can join the US military at 18, 17 in some circumstances. Majority of Marines earn their commission whilst completing the last two years of college. Let's assume Scarecrow took this path, making him probably 23, accounting for the time spent in basic training and flight school, by the time he was serving on H.M.A.S. Wasp and in Bosnia. Following the accident, another 10 weeks OCS to retrain as a ground marine and a year or so after that, he's a lieutenant being posted to an obscure ice station in Antarctica at 24 and a bit. The books are all set a year apart other than hell island, which we think occurs between 4-6 months after scarecrow. This story is set only shortly after hell island, making him 27 at most. I think this age is better suited to his close friendship with Book II who we know is quite young, and the oddly maternal way that Mother does look out for him. Okay, that was long and complicated but hopefully it makes sense and is helpful. :D

One last thing, this chapter is dedicated to Maddie Sparrow, my first reviewer, who inspired me to get off my ass and finish this chapter. Electronic cookies for her!

Chapter 2

As Book II disappeared into the throng of people crowding Mothers small living room, Schofield felt panic creep back into the edges of his mind. The four walls were stifling. The babble of conversations was surely hostile or mocking, and he was most definitely exposed. Has his stance changed in the few minutes he'd been outside? Should he start swinging his hips and sipping cocktails to make it that little bit more obvious because surely he has Gay tattooed to his forehead in flashing neon lights.

Somebody sidled over to him and a female voice attempted to strike up some inane conversation about favourite holiday destinations. 'Damn, this felt familiar,' Shane thought as he wrestled with his thoughts and tried to keep his cool. Thankfully, Book II chose that moment to reappear with the drinks and rescue him. Shane noted that his friend seemed far too mirthful than his own panicked temperament could appreciate. Book had been watching his friend struggling to politely rebuff the unsuspecting girl's advances and found a brand new humour to the situation. He pushed a beer into Schofield's still slightly shaking hands and breathed quietly at him to relax.

But Schofield just couldn't.

If the thought that everyone present might know was frightening, then the realisation that they didn't provoked pure terror. He had thought he could just tell someone, just say it once and maybe it would all be okay but the second he'd walked back into the room he was as trapped in that fucking closet as before. He'd got one toe out the door and he couldn't back down now, but the weight of how much he still had in front of him was crushing. Totally overwhelmed, he downed the rest of the drink, thrust the bottle back at a perplexed Book II and fled the packed, noisy party. Unaware that another set of eyes followed his every unusual move.

Mother pushed her sizable frame through the crowd towards Book II and smacked him, hard on the shoulder. "What the hell was that?" She boomed. "Boy couldn't have looked more out of sorts if you'd locked him in a submarine full of Frenchmen."

"Dunno," Book shrugged unconvincingly.

"Oh no you don't," Mother growled menacingly as he turned away from her. "You're gonna stay right here with me until I know what's going on."

"Can't tell you what I don't know," he insisted untruthfully in his slow steady drawl.

"Like hell you don't." Mother towered over Book II, at 6'4 she had nearly half a head on him and used it to great advantage. "You can't get by me, I saw you're cosy little chat in the garden. Now, I wants to know what in the name of sweet Mary is such a mother fucking problem!"

Book paused for a moment as though contemplating his reply. When it came, it was soft and calm. "If you know everything than you certainly don't need me to tell you. Now, 'scuse me."

He tried to leave but felt a firm hand grip his shoulder and steer him towards the kitchen. When the door clicked shut behind them, Mother spun him around so they were face to face and said with an unusually sombre expression, "Last time he looked like that I had to wrestle his gun away from his head and I sure as shit don't want a repeat performance. Tell me, so I can help him." Book II might have thought that she was pleading if he didn't know that Mother never pleads.

Buck Riley Junior always thought before he spoke, a trait he had inherited from his father, but right now he was a man conflicted. On one hand, Mother was a notorious gossip and the information he held was gossip of a highly volatile quality. On the other, she had a heart of gold and cared deeply for Scarecrow behind her brusque exterior. Surely she wouldn't. His mind resolved he said slowly and carefully, "Okay."

Outside, Schofield reached the end of Mother's street and stopped. The cool night air served to cool his wild and worried mind. Normally, he valued emotions. Found them intuitive and informative but right now, they were controlling him. He willed himself to think calmly and logically. He'd told Book II and his world hadn't imploded. Therefore, it would probably not self-destruct if other people knew. Maybe it would be awkward in the change rooms. Maybe he'd lose a few friends, cop a few jokes. At worst, he'd lose his job. But truthfully, these weren't really the heart of the problem. He'd handled so much more and he could cope with those eventualities. The real root of the problem, the real reason he was much deeper. Maybe the real reason he didn't want anybody else to know was that he wasn't sure he wanted to know himself.

In middle school when his friends has spent lunchtimes pouring over stolen playboys, he told himself it was the boobs and not the huddle of aroused boys that did it for him.

In high school, he'd played football for a while and tried to convince himself he only admired the quarterback's athletic ability. He'd been pretty good as well, but gave it up all too soon.

He'd become a marine and laughed as hard as anyone else in basic training when the instructors had labelled those that lagged behind as faggots.

He'd dated girls. Hell, he'd slept with girls. Libby had been stunning; beautiful, funny and as good a soldier as any of the boys and she had wanted him. He told himself that he could want her too, that he should want her too.

He'd convinced himself that 'Don't ask, Don't tell' didn't matter, didn't hurt, because there was nothing to tell.

And somewhere along the line, his secret had become so entrenched that he had become afraid of it.

It wasn't going to be easy, this evening had proven that, but as Mother had once told him, he wasn't like other guys. He was the scarecrow, the fucking scarecrow and he could do it.

He started back towards Mother's. The lease on his apartment was up a few weeks ago and Mother had offered him her couch until he found a new place. By the time he returned the party was beginning to wind down. He grabbed some of the now empty plates and headed towards the kitchen to begin the clean-up. He paused at the door though, when he heard muffled voices from inside.

"You might not believe me," Book suddenly understood Schofield's dilemma. How the hell was he supposed to explain this, "And I don't think there's any immediate need to confiscate his bowie knife." He said as he slowly paced the small room, stopping in front of the small window and staring into the pitch black sky.

He turned away from the kitchen window and faced Mother. "He's gay."

The only thing he wasn't prepared for was Mother's laughter. "Don't be stupid," she said between snorts, "he's the scarecrow. He's as straight as they come."

Book II merely quirked an eyebrow in return and watched as the laughter died on Mother's face and quickly turned into an expression of shock. "You're not serious? But Libby… and… and…" Her voice faltered. There was nothing else to complete that sentence with. Her mind raced, there were no pin-up babes in his locker and she'd never heard him partake in the dirty banter that frequented soldier's lips. And, with the exception of Libby, no one had ever seen him within 5 miles of a girl. She'd put it all down to a quiet, serious and perhaps even a little shy temperament. But if he just wasn't interested, in women at least, that certainly fit the bill as well. Other than the fact that he'd never outright confirmed it, but if Book said he just had, well, that changed the picture considerably.

Book watched the comprehension dawn on her face and when she managed to stutter our "Since when?" He replied, "I don't bloody well know, you'd have to ask him."

"Wait, Don't!" He exclaimed as Mother turned to go, possibly to go and find Schofield and do exactly that, "He'd kill me if he knew I'd told you."

Leaning against the door, Schofield wished he hasn't listened. Anger coursed through him in powerful waves as he shoved the door open and said "well he's certainly thinking about it."

"You bastard" he hissed at Books stunned face. Without meeting Mother's eye, he turned and fled the house for the second time that night.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I did have written here "Promise this one will be short" but that didn't quite work out. Apologies. So I tried to find out exactly how many men there are in a recon unit only to discover after quite a bit of fruitless searching that there are no fixed numbers. Most commonly, a recon unit consists of 4, 8, 10 or 12 men and we see variations of this in Ice Station (12) and Hell Island (10). I'm not all that good at making up original characters so I've taken a couple of liberties with the canon (again…) and combined the surviving members of Scarecrow's various teams into one eight man unit. Thus, the unit consists of:

(CO) Captain Shane "Scarecrow" Schofield (duh!)

Gunnery Sergeant Gena "Mother" Newman

Sergeant Buck "Book II" Riley Junior

Private Robert "Rebound" Simmons (I know he left technically but hey, he's still alive and that's good enough for me!)

Corporal Sean "Astro" Miller

Sergeant Paulo "Pancho" Sanchez

Corporal "Bigfoot" (I combed Hell Island but I couldn't find a real name for Bigfoot anywhere. If someone does know it, please tell me!)

But for those of you who are astute you will realise that's only 7… As I said, I really hate writing my own OC's (though I do have one, only one, who all my energy has gone into creating. He's not coming out to play anytime soon, but he will eventually!) so if people would like to suggest names and couple of character traits, I will happily base a character on that! Which also has the added benefit of being a sneaky way to get you to review!

Only one more thing, promise! After being conglomerated together, a marine recon unit spends 6 months training together before they are considered for active service. Let's say that this unit is about 4 or 5 months through that process. Ta muchly!

Chapter 3

Mother awoke the next morning to Ralph's cheery whistling and the smell of sizzling bacon drifting tantalizingly from the kitchen. She blinked sleep out of bleary eyes and dragged her unwilling body out of bed. Pulling on her utility greens as she went, she headed towards the delicious smell and was greeted with the sight of a mischievous smile on Ralph's face.

"The couch hasn't been slept on and the Scarecrow is not here," he said in his bright baritone.

"He didn't come back last night?" Ralph mistook the anxious note of her enquiry as curiosity. "Nope," He beamed. "Maybe he took off with a lady friend." He added, waggling his eyebrows suggestively to emphasise his point. Mother forced a guffaw and grabbed a bacon sandwich or two as she headed towards the door. "I'm late," she called over her shoulder as she left. She ran the rest of the way to the training compound.

As she skidded to a halt in the boxy weapons room she noticed that the atmosphere was already charged. Sergeant Paulo "Pancho" Sanchez was leaned up against the grey wall with feigned ease whilst Private Robert "Rebound" Simmons' freckled face was almost the same colour as his copper hair. The other assembled members of the unit were either staring apprehensively at the pair or resolutely at the rivulets on the floor. Rebound, loyal to a fault to Schofield since the hellish incident in Antarctica and Sanchez, sneaky, sarcastic and ever doubting, were constantly butting heads and it looked as though another argument was about to erupt.

"All I'm saying is," the silkily sly voice of Sanchez cut through the room like ice through a thick fog; "We can't start the exercise til we sign out the guns, we can't sign out the guns til the captain gets here and right now, he ain't here."

"Shut it you." Mother said sharply as she pushed past Sanchez and banged on the grilled window. A grizzled but kindly staff sergeant appeared on the other side. Callsign: 'Q' after the Bond inventor, he was the quartermaster in charge of all weaponry.

"Just a tad late aren't you?" He inquired. "Your CO was here when I opened up this morning in the bloody wee hours of dawn. Took a sniper rifle and enough ammo to sink a small battleship. Not brought it back yet either." He added in a lowered voice.

"Thanks." She said gruffly. Turning back to face the group, her eyes sought out Book's and pulled him aside. "He didn't come back last night." She said as quietly as she could manage, acutely aware of the sets of prying eyes and prickling ears surrounding them. "Stay here, I'll go and try knock some sense into that thick head of his."

As she headed out towards the sniper range, all eyes turned to Book II, who resolutely ignored them. It was Sanchez who finally broke the tense silence. "Well, well, well. What have we got going on here?" His eyes shined with malicious curiosity. He looked pointedly at the youngest member of the team; slight, blond haired, blue eyed, corporal Sean "Astro" Miller and addressed his next comments to him. "I told you he wasn't firing on all cylinders and it appears that those remaining functional are failing rapidly." Astro stared defiantly back, Rebounds hands clenched into fists and the dark blue eyes of Bigfoot looked up coolly. Bigfoot had become a well-liked and respected member of the team, where his close friend Sanchez had not. "Pancho…" He began in a calm conciliatory voice but it was Book II who completed the sentence for him, "…You talk too much." He said as he strode out the door and turning his back on the others, settled himself down in the clear sunshine outside to wait.

As Mother approached the sniper range she peered at the elevated booths with keen eyes. Blinking green lights set over them indicated that none were in use, save one. Naturally, it was the furthest one away and so Mother began to climb the steep hill. Looking back as she did so, she saw the state of the practice dummy he'd been using. It was torn to shreds by countless precision aimed bullets. Clearly, he was still seriously pissed off. Another shot split the air, the dummy shuddered again and Mother winced.

Mother entered the small dark booth cautiously and saw a body lying on his stomach, staring down the sights of the barrel.

"You know," she said, "for someone so bloody intelligent, you can be a right dumbass sometimes."

He pulled the trigger again and another devastating crack rang out. He gave no indication that he had even heard her, though he most definitely had. So Mother settled herself down next to him, back against the wall and knees drawn up. Turning her head to look at him, still looking at his target, she said, "You do realise there are thousands of gay people out there and just because the pricks who run this man's army are fuckwits doesn't mean you have to beat yourself up about it."

"I'm not like them." He replied quietly, deadly, with the gun still pressed up against his shoulder.

"No, you're not." She agreed. "They're got the good sense to accept who they are and deal with it instead of hiding in a cupboard with a gun." She smiled. "This ain't you. This ain't the Scarecrow. A Scarecrow who prefers Steve to Eve, I can handle that. But a Scarecrow who's so afraid he's just gonna run away from the problem, now that's just not right."

Shane swung around abruptly to face her. Pulling himself into a sitting position, he mumbled, "I'm not hiding. Just needed to destroy something"

She chuckled. "I suppose the dummy was a better choice than Book then."

"Not as satisfying but less likely to get me court marshalled." He replied deadpan.

"Look, I forced him to tell me," she said uncharacteristically serious. "I was worried you were gonna blow your head off and," she shrugged over her shoulder at the tattered dummy far below them, "I was pretty close to being right." When he said nothing, she eventually broke the silence with;

"Hell, you sure know how to keep a secret."

The fleeting smile that seemed to quirk at the edge of his lips faltered rapidly. When he spoke, it was in a voice so quiet she could barely hear him. He sounded oddly choked.

"I don't want to be," His voice trailed off, as though unable to say the words.

"What, gay?" Mother prodded gently. Shane jerked his head away from her and kept looking at the floor, as though he could burn a hole in it. "Honey, I don't think you have much of a choice. If you're gay, then you're gay and that's just the way it is." After a pause in which he continued to stay stubbornly silent, she added, "And who says you can't be a stubborn, enigmatic, oh so masculine marine and want to snog guys as well!" That raised a chuckle out of him.

Standing and stretching, she turned to him and asked cheekily "Think you could give me some fashion advice then? Your lot are supposed to be experts." He swung a lazy punch at her kneecaps, which she grabbed and used to haul him to his feet. "Or my hair, can you help me do something with that?" She teased him playfully, batting her eyelashes. Schofield couldn't supress a reluctant smile which spread all the way to his eyes. "Nobody could do anything with that, Mother," He replied mischievously, running his hand across the short, sharp bristles on her head and shoving her lightly. He looked out at the bright sunlight now streaming through the slit in the booth. Schofield grinned, "come on, we're late already."

When they returned to the training compound Book II was still seated outside waiting patiently, whilst inside, the others traded increasingly wild guesses. Book met Schofield's covered eyes, "we okay?" He asked simply. Shane nodded and stuck his out his hand. "Already forgotten about it," He replied as they shook hands. All three laughed as Astro voiced his latest theory which carried loudly through the door "Maybe the aliens from Antarctica came back and took him!"

"No aliens Astro," Schofield said as he strode into the room, acting for all the world as if nothing had happened and every eye was not fixed on him curiously; "and no more bedtime stories for you either if they're gonna make your imagination run wild." He stopped and stared back at them in the dull grey light of the weapons room.

Instantly switching back into officer mode, he barked "Well, what're you all waiting for? We've got ten laps of the obstacle course to complete before drill and we're running late already." When none of them moved, he smiled darkly and added, "Drill sergeant isn't as nice as I am so I suggest you get your asses into gear."

They all scurried to complete his orders save one, who remained leaning casually by the door. "Captain's prerogative to forget who made us late I suppose." Sanchez drawled lazily as he swaggered over to where Schofield was briskly stripping and cleaning the rifle.

Schofield's shoulders stiffened and when he replied, it was deadly "What did you say Pancho?" Mother paused by the door and looked at the two men. Schofield's hands had curled into fists and the tension in the room was palpable. She needn't have worried however as the next words out of Scarecrow's mouth were quite calm, "If you would like to run the course carrying full field pack, that can be arranged." Perhaps Sanchez sensed that today was not a day to be pushing Schofield's buttons and slunk out of the room scowling but without another word. The two had never really recovered from their early animosity and the look in Sanchez's eyes as he'd left was enough to cause Schofield unease.

Sensing her presence, Schofield called out over his shoulder and said to her though with a much lighter tone, "You too Mother."

She looked back and smiled at him, which he returned, as she jogged to catch up with the others.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Just realised I hadn't put a disclaimed in chapter one. Obviously it's not mine and there's no point suing me over it because I own nothing but a couple of balls of fluff and a lucky scarab beetle all the way from Egypt.

But I do own my brand new OC who you get to meet in this chapter. There needed to be more of a female presence and I think she could be lots of fun!

By the way, google the silent drill if you're interested. I really couldn't find the words to do it justice.

This chapter dedicated to the anonymous reviewer by the name of "Ebs." I promise to reply to every review however, I couldn't reply to yours, so this chapter is for you instead. Thanks. And I think I'm crazy sometimes as well! :P

That's all, really.

Chapter 4

Rebound and Astro were the first to return. Young, enthusiastic and competitive, they tumbled into the room, vying for first place as if it were a race. Private Harper "Skip" Grady was close behind. Tiny and petite with her close cropped brown curls plastered to her head, Skip was fiery and if possible, even more competitive than any of the men in the squad. Her nickname had been bestowed upon her as a good natured jibe at her boundless energy. As the newest member of the team, she had a lot to prove but Schofield was well pleased with the choice.

The rest of the team filtered into the room over the next few minutes. Book and Bigfoot, at a slightly more sedate pace, were followed closely by Sanchez. Mother was bringing up the rear. Last to leave and having already run to and from the sniper range that morning, her chest was heaving.

Schofield surveyed his unit. They were dishevelled, covered in mud and sweating profusely. If they arrived at drill rehearsal in that state they would surely be punished, a good icy hosing down being the sergeants preferred method. However, if they were late, the consequences would not bear thinking about. With no time for a shower and a fresh uniform, Schofield wordlessly indicated to the table laid with eight prepared 10 pound M1 rifles. The long and heavy guns were with their shiny fixed bayonets were absolutely lethal. So naturally it was these guns used in the famously intricate and elaborate US Marine Corp Silent Drill. Today's practice drill would be anything but silent however, as the sergeant would rant and rail at any careless mistake. With good reason, a careless mistake could very easily turn deadly.

They grabbed the guns and dashed to the open training compound where the other four units would be waiting for them to begin the drill. A funny picture they looked, seven filthy marines following their still clean and crisp captain.

As expected, they only just arrived on time and dirty as they were, received a thorough drenching for it. Schofield, clean, was able to slot quietly into line and escaped the freezing punishment. He shot his now bedraggled marines a mischievous smirk; who in turn, glared daggers back at him as the sergeant roared about pride in the marine uniform.

The icy hosing quickly turned to a benefit as they whirled and twirled, stomped and marched in the blazing sun. Today, however, they were in for a pleasant surprise. After only an hour and a half, the sergeant stopped them and declared, after four months of daily practise, that their efforts in the first section of the drill were "passable" and that tomorrow they would begin the shorter but infinitely more difficult and dangerous second section: the rifle inspection. In order to rest and prepare, they were being given the remainder of the day off. The sergeant's face relaxed into something resembling a grin as he nodded curtly to each of the five commanding officers present.

Having been through the intense marine recon training program twice before with his two previous misfortunate teams, Schofield recognised this for what it was; high praise indeed and a rare treat.

After a loud "Oorah!" The fifty or so assembled recons went to return their weapons and hit their respective showers. Easing tired and aching bodies with warm water and light hearted banter.

As they cleaned their guns, Schofield congratulated his men encouragingly. He had great hopes for this team, having hand-picked every one himself. With the exception of Skip, who he had selected for her sheer potential, he had previous experience with every one and he knew them all, even Sanchez, to be good men in a storm. His offer to return all the guns to the weapons room to make up for their earlier punishment was gladly accepted as the others headed rapidly for the showers.

Mother, noting that Scarecrow had managed to avoid the showering scenario, smiled slightly at his retreating back. She gleefully announced that they had best make good use of their free time and so there would be a barbeque and beers at hers for anyone interested, before foregoing her own shower and jogging out the door to catch up with Schofield.

"Oi," she called after him and he twisted with difficulty, trying to see her with arms loaded full of the guns. She caught up with him and took some of the rifles from him, trying to avoid stabbing herself with the pointy bits. "Something I been meaning to check with you. I don't keep secrets from Ralph," she said bluntly but cautiously, slightly concerned about how he would react.

He nodded, slowly and slightly, and asked "have you told him?"

"Not yet," she replied, "but I will if a convenient opportunity appears."

The expected dread didn't fill his belly, but rather, a curious sense of relief that he found himself feeling far more often nowadays. It felt like a lifetime, but in reality it had only been yesterday that he'd actually said the words aloud for the first time. He nodded again, stronger this time, looked at her and, smiling, said "one more down, only the rest of the world to go."

The words were filled with a still slightly bitter humour and Mother threw her head back and laughed. "You know what," she said, "Somehow I think you'll be just fine."

They had just signed the rifles back into the stores when Schofield turned to her, his face lit up with a playful expression.

"Race you back to yours."

And without another word, he had shot out the door and down the road that led to Mother's place, Mother following furiously.

As she rounded the last bend, she saw him leaning on the gate and grinning from ear to ear.

"What the blazes was that about?" She demanded, doubled over and panting.

"I didn't get a proper run in this morning did I," he responded with a lazy cheerfulness, "and incidentally, I won."

"Well," she growled, "your prize is to clean the barbeque before the others get here." Ignoring his protests, she pushed him into the backyard and handed him the scrubbing brush. She locked the back door behind her with an evil smirk, watched him glare exasperatedly at her through the glass panel as she called out to Ralph, "I'm back, and company's coming round later."

Ralph's bald, smiling face appeared round the door to the living room and, if possible, smiled even wider. Mother and Ralph were very much an odd couple but to those who knew them, the notion of one without the other was ridiculous. In the absence of their own children, they had become a surrogate family for all the marines in Mother's units over the years. It was hard to live, fight and die together without becoming closer than life itself. Nonetheless, this was not the derivation of Mother's operational call sign, which stemmed from a slightly longer word beginning with Mother and rhyming with Trucker, a tribute to her balls of steel attitude.

Schofield strolled into the living room to join them, wiping his oily hands on a rag. Mother blinked stupidly at him and he tossed a small object to her, which she caught with ease.

"Hey Mother, next time you lock someone out, check them for lock guns first."

He tucked the rag into his back pocket and sauntered out the room. Mother watched the rag sway as he left and called out naughtily, "You'll make someone a great wife one day Scarecrow."

He smiled back wickedly over his shoulder, "You should know." He called, ignoring Ralph's bemused look.

"It's 'mazing what a good shag can do for a man," Ralph said gruffly, plonking his small but slightly rotund frame onto the couch.

Mother started to nod blankly still staring out the door, before spinning abruptly to face him, "Wait, What?" She exclaimed.

He stared back at her surprised face and chuckled. "Him," he said, nodding his head towards the door where Schofield had just exited. "He's miserable yesterday night, he doesn't come home this morning and now he's happy the next afternoon. I may not be the brightest tool in the shed but I'm not blind."

Mother's face registered nothing but shock, until the sheer ludicrousness of the statement, of all their preconceived notions, sunk in and she couldn't stop herself laughing riotously. Now it was Ralph's turn to look blank as she laughed, bent over, uncontrollably.

"I -" She choked out, "- I don't think -" Snort. "- He was with -" Gasp. "- A_ girl_." Snigger.

"Barking up the wrong tree there love." She said with controlled mirth.

Ralph's broad cheerful face furrowed with lines of confusion and he looked at mother curiously.

"I don't think I understand you," he said.

The laughter on her face died and she vaguely heard but ignored the doorbell ring in the background.

She gave him a darkly significant look, hoping he'd catch her drift but he seemed to be stubbornly avoiding eye contact.

"I think you do." She returned.

He leapt up from the sofa and started pacing the room, clearly agitated.

"Well I don't," he countered defensively, "because it sounded like you were implying he's a queer." He lowered his voice at the last word and practically spat it at Mother, spinning round abruptly with an almost maniacal look.

Schofield, unhearing, heard the bell from where he was standing in the kitchen and went to let in the early arrivals. Meanwhile, Mother stood stoically, staring at the unfamiliar raging man who just moments ago had been her ever-cheerful husband. She held his angry gaze for a moment before inclining her head slightly in affirmation.

Ralph shook his head at her in disbelief.

"No – not him." He looked at her pleadingly, as if she could somehow make it untrue.

Schofield reached the door and pulled it open to reveal Bigfoot, looking relaxed and happy to be there; and Sanchez, looking not so happy. Nonetheless, he smiled at them both as he stood aside to let them in. "Everyone's in the lounge" he said as they passed.

Mother was stunned, virtually into silence; but never one to calm a fire, she pressed on.

"Do you got a problem with gay people?" She said in a gravelly tone usually reserved for Sanchez.

"No," he snapped back, "Just, not him alright."

Resuming his pacing, his voice getting louder with every step, "I mean, we played basketball together, he's sleeping on my couch, he's a marine for Christ sakes!"

In hindsight, Schofield wouldn't have walked into the room, but Mother and Ralph were both bold personalities and their frequent clashes seemed to be the spark in their marriage and so he thought nothing of it when he heard raised voices emanating from within. He walked in, Sanchez and Bigfoot in tow, in time to hear Ralph yell;

"He's the fucking Scarecrow, he just can't be a faggot."

Shane froze.

The last word hit him like a blast of icy water.

Unrestrained anger boiled through him in that moment and it took all his self-control not to wipe that look of Ralph's face with his fist. Concealed dark blue eyes radiated fury but his face remained impassive as Ralph, nose wrinkling in disgust, spat at him, "Get out."

Leaving a seething Ralph to face an apoplectic Mother, he did just that, sweeping out of the house without a backwards glance at a very confused Bigfoot or Sanchez, whose sly smile had crept across his face. Behind him, chaos erupted.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Just a brief note, for those of us not in the US, collegiate actually exists. It's an extremely exclusive but exceptional school for boys in New York.

And I promise the plot will kick in next chapter, but the plot bunnies were really interested in Schofield's background and wouldn't let me go until I'd done some thorough research and made him a whole life. Anyway, it's probably a bit late for a plot because this story only has a couple more chapters left to go (I think, I'm writing it as I go…) But something is going to happen in the next couple of chapters other than angsty musings.

Also, I've got a sequel planned but I don't want to impose it on anybody if this story is crappy to begin with, so please let me know if you would like the sequel.

And the rating's gone up because of language.

And I really need to perfect the art of a short authors note.

Chapter 5

He didn't even pause to pack his stuff. He was through the door and out the gate in such a blaze that he didn't even notice as he walked into Book II, coming up the path.

"Whoa," Book cried as he grabbed Schofield arms, noticing his stormy countenance. "You do realise every time you march out it's gonna get less effective."

Shane tried to push past him but Book kept his grip firm. "What're you running away from this time?" He asked softly but with a hint of amusement.

At first Shane said nothing. He was still seething at Ralph's betrayal. Sure, he wasn't naïve enough to believe that coming out would be all sunshine and daisies and that everybody he knew, especially those in the armed forces, would be okay with it. But he wasn't expecting an attack from Ralph of all people. The portly trucker had a heart as wide as his smile, or so he'd thought. They'd been mates for years but right now, Schofield could have torn him apart with his bare hands. He looked up at the calm eyes of the younger man and spat the word "Ralph" at him, as means of explanation. Anger leaving him lost for words.

Book watched and waited, wondering what had made Schofield angrier than he had ever seen him. He let go of his arms and was relieved to see that Schofield made no attempt to keep running. Eventually, he ran a hand through his short black hair and took a deep breath. Calming down enough to say, "think I might need a new place to stay."

"Fine, stay at mine." Book said instantly without questioning why "But you can't leave without taking anything." He reasoned. Schofields face darkened again and he said bluntly, "I'm not going back in there."

Book could have laughed at his friend's stubbornness but instead he tossed him his keys and told Shane to go on ahead to his apartment. He would go and grab his stuff and meet him back there later. Schofield smiled gratefully and left. Book II meanwhile, headed inside to find out what the hell had happened.

What he found inside shocked him. Mother was yelling – alright that didn't surprise him that much – and Ralph was cowering. Bigfoot looked like a child well out of his depth and Sanchez was still grinning that sly smirk. Book II looked at them questioningly, but neither seemed capable, or willing, to explain. Instead, he turned his attention to Mother, who was still yelling, arms gesticulating wildly. Phrases from her tirade jumped out at him.

"Your friend"

"How dare you"

"Fucking homophobic"

"Can't fucking believe you"

She was so busy yelling he didn't think she'd even noticed him enter the room. Ralph's face was a mixture of emotion, he looked small and beaten though residual anger still twisted his features. Book might have been a simple man, but he was smart enough to put the pieces together and form a vague idea of what had gone on in here. Deciding that right now, Mother was doing perfectly fine dressing down Ralph on her own; and Schofield probably needed him more, he grabbed the regulation army duffel bag tucked discreetly beside the couch as well as a light grey cotton t-shirt draped over the armrest. Too small to be Mothers and too skinny to be Ralphs, he figured it must have been Schofields. With that, any trace of another person who had lived, albeit shortly, in this house was gone.

As he walked out the door, Book II reflected on how little Schofield's presence had affected Mother's place. The bag slung over his shoulder was as nondescript as they come with nothing but a number stamped on the outside to identify its owner. They'd always accepted that Schofield was an enigma. That he didn't like to talk about his past. But it didn't seem like that anymore, it seemed he had been subdued by the military that had become his very life.

When he walked into his own sitting room, he found Schofield sitting hunched over on the couch, staring at his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. The wrap around silver glasses that normally hid his eyes were lying beside him. He looked tired and careworn. He nodded his head in thanks when Book tossed the light bag across the room at him and indicated the cup he was holding.

"There's more in the kitchen." If his eyes didn't betray how he was feeling, the strain in his voice most certainly did.

"Thanks."

Coffee in hand, he slumped onto the couch beside Schofield. "I realised something," he said, "You're like a brother to me. But I don't really know anything about you." He held up a hand when Shane began to protest. "No, I mean it. We've always talked about me. My father, my mother." He paused for a moment. "My dreams and ambitions, how great a marine I'm going to be," he said, voice rich with humour. "We've talked about girls and work and everything else meaningless I can think off, but never about you." He said more seriously.

"Okay," he said after a minute in which Schofield had done nothing but continue to stare at his coffee, as though it would evaporate before he could drink it. "let's start with something easy. You didn't spring fully formed in khaki and sunglass from a base. Where were you born? You've never mentioned your family to anyone."

After another glance at the coffee - yep, still there – he said "Cody, Wyoming."

Book II laughed riotously. "Sorry," he spluttered out after a minute. "But isn't that where that movie is set? You know, the one with the cowboys?"

Schofield looked at him blankly before saying, "That movie with the cowboys, real descriptive."

"The gay cowboys."

Schofield grabbed a cushion from beside him and threw it at Books head. "Funnily enough, I don't have the entire script of Brokeback Mountain memorised." He said scathingly.

"Ah, but you knew the name." Book smiled at him, "alright, no more Wyoming jokes. Just didn't pick you for a mid-west mountain boy. You didn't own sheep did you?"

Having already thrown the single cushion, Schofield could resort to nothing but his glare. Fortunately, as a marine commander, he'd rather perfected it over the years. "Ignoring that comment, my grandfather moved there after the war. He needed time and space to heal, so where better than a place with plenty of both and virtually no people to disturb him. He ran the air postal service for the mountains."

Shane looked almost wistful. "He'd take me along. When I was old enough he taught me to fly, 'looking out of God's window' he used to say."

"He was a marine. So I bet him and my nan we're thrilled when my mom started seeing this nice marine boy." He continued to fiddle with the cup and a slightly bitter look appeared in his eyes, "but then said boy was posted to a nicer, city base and by the time she realised she was pregnant with me he'd got himself a glamorous wife and a brand new life. Didn't want naught to do with us."

Book heard the slight country twang slip in naturally as Schofield opened up a bit. He wasn't sure which one of them was more surprised by how much he had said.

Having started now, Schofield found he didn't really want to stop. He kicked his shoes off and pulled his legs up onto the couch, curling them underneath him, still clutching the warm coffee.

"Only, then his perfect life hit a small hitch when his marriage only produced two little girls. And there I was, the son he'd always wanted, readymade. He thought that paying for my education at some fancy New York school would somehow substitute for an actual relationship." The bitter look was becoming more pronounced.

"So he upped and moved me halfway across the continent by myself, to send me to a school to make me into a real man, a son he could be proud of. I was ten."

"It was a great school though." He added as an afterthought.

"Collegiate." He said in answer to Book's inquiring look.

Book whistled softly at the name. He was impressed. Collegiate was one of the top schools in America. He'd known that Schofield was no slacker, but he hadn't realised quite how bright a brain lay behind those cool blue eyes.

"Man, next you'll be telling me you went to Harvard or something like that." Book laughed kindly, and Schofield's face broke into a half smile.

"Stanford, actually," he said. "Dad wanted the military university but I got into Stanford all on my own and it pissed him off, so naturally it was all I wanted. Majored in aerodynamics and physics. Then, with a marine father and grandfather I couldn't very well not join up, so I did and decided I wanted to fly like my grandad. The rest, as they say, is history."

He laughed quietly to himself and Book understood that the spell was broken. Shane wasn't going to say anything more right now. Hearing Schofield talk about his family, especially his relationship with his father, made Book II understand a little better the relationship between his own father, the original Book Riley, and Shane. He decided to chance one more question.

"Do you see them often?" He asked tentatively.

"My family?" Schofield clarified. When Book nodded, he answered, "Nah, I try not to see my dad, never got on well with my stepmother and the older of my sisters, my youngest sister's okay but she's studying in California and my mom, grandad and Nan are still out in Cody."

He paused for a moment but eventually continued quietly, shaking his head, "wonder what they'd think of the mess I've made of my life now."

Book wasn't sure how to answer that but was fortunately saved by Schofield throwing his head back and groaning loudly. "Fuck," he breathed, "Sanchez knows."

Surely by tomorrow everyone in the unit, the base even if Sanchez could manage it, would know that the Scarecrow was a faggot. Truthfully, that wasn't what concerned him. Sure, the word had hurt when it had been hurled at him unsuspectingly by a man he thought of as a friend, but he was tough, and it would take more than a couple of words to break him. It wasn't even imagining the potentially horrible reactions of his friends and colleagues that set him on edge. After all, it had taken him long enough to be able to accept himself, he owed it to them to give them that time to process and understand as well. What really unnerved him was that he'd lost control of the situation. He wanted to do this on his terms, but now it didn't look like he had a choice.

Book's voice broke through his thoughts, "Do you want to talk about this afternoon?"

"Not really," Schofield replied shortly. He looked down and was almost surprised to see the full mug of coffee still clutched in his hands. "Dead cold," he said as he got up, indicating the coffee. He went into the kitchen, poured it down the sink and washed the mug. By the time he'd returned to the lounge, Book II had rustled up a couple of spare blankets and a pillow, which Schofield accepted gratefully.

Sinking onto the couch, he fell into a restless sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I don't reckon I did a very good job explaining what the drill looks like. So, in true MR style, here's a diagram: Each unit is represented by a number, so there are eight men (or women) in each number.

1

2 3 4

5

In Schofield's unit, the order from most senior to least senior would go:

Captain Shane "Scarecrow" Schofield

Gunnery Sergeant Gena "Mother" Newman

Sergeant Paulo "Pancho" Sanchez

Sergeant Buck "Book II" Riley Junior

Corporal "Bigfoot" (Again with the lack of name)

Corporal Sean "Astro" Miller

Private Robert "Rebound" Simmons

Private Harper "Skip" Grady

And just so people know, JAG is the Judge Advocate General, the branch of the military involved in law and any offences I've quoted here and for real military offences.

And an article 32 really exists, it's a pre-trial held to determine if there is significant cause and evidence to proceed to a full court-martial.

Chapter 6

When Schofield woke up the next morning, the unfamiliar surroundings caused him momentary panic as memories of a deserted Serbian farm, the smell of hospitals and impenetrable darkness swallowed him. Realising where he was and why he was there brought him little comfort however. His back was sore from sleeping on yet another couch so he stretched it out as he headed towards another unfamiliar bathroom. Leaning on the sink, he looked hard at his reflection. His eyes, when able to see past the disfiguring scars, looked tired and his complexion wan. Two days' worth of stubble marred his handsome face and his regulation military buzz cut was growing out into unruly tousles that stuck up in all directions. A shower, shave and a pair of sunglasses later, he felt almost capable of facing the day, Sanchez and all.

He heard Book trundling about in his bedroom. A muffled thump and loud curse told Schofield that the other man was not a morning person. He decided to hit the kitchen for toast and coffee. Book II slipped in a minute later, buttons only half done up, and grabbed a couple of slices of toast of the stack Shane was holding.

"Ta," was all he managed as he tried, unsuccessfully, to dress and eat at the same time. Schofield, laughing at Book as he sipped his coffee, was aware that if they didn't hurry up, they would be late again. However, he was reluctant to get a move on as arriving at work meant facing whatever Sanchez had prepared for him. But eventually, he could put it off no longer and so, reluctantly, followed Book out the door.

Arriving at the training compound, Schofield avoided Sanchez and Bigfoot's eyes determinedly by staring at the ground and barking for them to "hit the track" immediately.

During the morning run, Schofield pushed himself to keep up with the leaders of the pack, Astro and Rebound. Although he was hardly old himself, Schofield didn't have the boundless energy of the very young. What he did possess was determination to the point of foolhardiness and a seriously good incentive in the form of staying as far away from Sanchez as possible. The adrenaline as well as the fresh morning air whipping around him made Schofield feel freer and more relaxed then he had in a long time. But as good things are prone to doing, the run ended far too soon and they poured back into the compound in a dishevelled, sweaty mess. Barely time to shove their heads under a cold tap and a fresh uniform later, they were back in the compound, lining up for drill practice.

Although it was a great honour to be stationed at the Marine Barracks in Washington D.C., the oldest barracks in the country and the home of the official drill parade, it was also one hell of a pain in the rear end. It was these marines that were on show at all official military occasions in which the silent drill was performed. As such, they had to be the best of the best; and, as the platoon Schofield and his unit were part of were constantly informed by their instructor, they were nowhere near it yet. Today, as promised, they would finally begin the conclusion of the drill, the rifle inspection.

The five units organised themselves into the cross formation, with each unit forming a single line from most senior, to least. On the drill sergeant's orders, they each turned a sharp ninety degrees, each man facing the opposite way the one next to him, and marched a single step to form a zigzagging formation. It was in this sequence, that a single rifle would be "inspected" by being thrown from one marine to another, snaking its way up the line.

At which point, most of the marines in the unit could relax, save the three most senior ranking soldiers who would throw it back and forth in a triangle formation whilst performing complex twirls and shots. The presence of the lethal bayonet made the entire thing extremely complicated. Schofield winced inwardly when he realised that the three most senior people in the unit were himself, Mother and Sanchez – who only trumped Book II because he was older.

Realising that there was nothing between Sanchez and himself but a bayonet made Shane decidedly uncomfortable. Fortunately, the inspection started at the other end of the line but that bought him only a little more time as it soon started its graceful flight up the line, turning once in the air between each marine with minimal drops, ducks and curses. Before he knew it, the gleaming gun was in Mother's hands and she had thrown it high into the air toward him.

Every nerve in his body on edge, he reached above his head and snatched the gun out of the air, bringing it behind his back with an elegant twirl before snapping to attention with it held proudly in front of him. He fired a single loud shot into the air, smiled and tossed the gun to Sanchez, who also caught it with ease. He too performed a similar manoeuvre and fired it before tossing it back to Schofield, who threw it on to Mother and the cycle continued, a third shot cracking the air.

Schofield watched the gun fly from Mother to Sanchez and breathed a sigh of relief. Only one manoeuvre left and so far, he had survived. Catching the gun almost lazily, Sanchez' eyes gleamed as he threw the gun back at Schofield.

It spun in its final arc but it was too low. It wasn't going to complete the rotation in time. It reached Schofield with the barrel and bayonet still pointing at him. He went to catch it anyway out of reflex and the blade bit deep into his hand.

"Shit, ow." He cursed loudly as he jumped backwards, the gun quivering upright next to him, the blade impaled in the ground where Schofield's foot had been only moments earlier.

"Oops," Sanchez said nonchalantly whilst Schofield quickly surveyed his hand which was now slick and shining with blood.

The two men's eyes met and in seconds they were practically nose to nose against each other. It might have looked like a lovers clinch were it not for the snarling and the clenched fists.

Mother thankfully, was just as fast. She pushed herself between them and placing an enormous hand on both of their chests, spread her arms, forcing them apart.

By that time, the drill sergeant had arrived and demanded to know what had happened. Schofield, still breathing hard and staring at Sanchez, said "Nothing."

"Sir," he added hastily, finally breaking eye contact with Sanchez.

The sergeant, seeing the state of Schofield's hand and realising there was no way he could realistically or safely continue the dangerous drill, dismissed them early again. This time however, there was no cheering or excitement, only a tense anticipation of what the afternoon would now hold.

"Showers," Schofield called brusquely to his marines retreating backs. "Then I'll see you all at the rings for hand to hand combat training."

His eyes sought out and locked with Sanchez's again.

Mother, still restraining him, loosened her hold and patted him on the back before heading off to the women's shower block. Shane, for his part, glanced at his hand again and was surprised to see how much it was bleeding. He shook his head at the ground regretfully before heading after his men.

Astro had tugged the rifle out of the ground and taken it with him. Schofield needed to retrieve it and return it to the stores. He entered the change room, grabbed the gun from where Astro had left it leaning against a bench and made to leave but found his way blocked by none other than bloody Sanchez.

"No shower again Captain?" He asked silkily and Shane tensed.

"Careful, people might think that's," he paused for emphasis, "odd."

Schofield tried to push past him, anger seething below the surface but restrained for now. But Sanchez flung out an arm to prevent him leaving. Leaning in close, he hissed at Schofield through bared teeth, "Then again, I don't think we want fairies like you in our showers anyway."

"Sanchez," he replied coolly, "even a fairy like me could kick your pathetic ass any day."

He might have made it out the door if Sanchez hadn't retorted viciously,

"Because I'm sure that's all you'd like to do to my ass."

Schofield was vaguely aware of a throbbing in his injured hand but he was sure it was nothing compared to the pain Sanchez was feeling where Schofield had punched him.

Next thing he knew, Sanchez had thrown him up against the wall and he banged his head hard on the solid brick wall, his sunglasses falling off. Head throbbing to go with his hand, it took all his strength to push Sanchez off him. Sanchez retaliated by grabbing him round the shoulders and bringing his knee into Shane's stomach. He fell wheezing and grasping his stomach but from his position on the floor was able to sweep Sanchez's legs out from under him and the other man fell also.

Both were excellent martial artists but upon hitting the ground, their years of training dissolved as they rolled on the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, kicks and scrappy punches. Hearing the noise from the fight, the others poured into the room in various states of undress. Sanchez had Schofield pinned on the floor and was punching him in the face. Schofield had a hold of one of Sanchez's arms and was twisting it with one hand whilst using the other to hold Sanchez's face away from him, fingers gouging at his eyes.

The men of the unit looked on in stunned silence before, finally, Book grabbed Sanchez and Rebound grabbed Schofield, pulling them off the floor and each other. The onlookers raised a cry now, mostly cheering for Schofield, which clearly could be heard from the compound as several of the marines from other units as well as the drill sergeant charged into the room.

"What the devil is going on here," he boomed as he took in Schofield and Sanchez restrained by Book and Rebound respectively but still struggling to get at each other. They were a right mess. Both were covered in blood from Schofield's hand which continued to bleed freely. As well as this, both were sporting matching shiners; Schofield had a cut lip and Sanchez, a long scratch down the side of his face.

Assessing the situation, his face getting redder by the second, the sergeant looked at both men before barking, "Right, Brig!" And grabbing both of them, he dragged them out of the shower block and into the sunlight.

The blazing sun however, couldn't be seen through the small window in the cell, in the brig, in which both Schofield and Sanchez currently sat, glaring daggers at each other but not stupid enough to continue the fight under the watchful eyes of the brig officers.

On one side of the cell they'd been shoved in together, Sanchez sat upright, haughtily leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Whilst on the other side, Schofield sat with his hands clasped and head bowed. Both men looked up when the drill sergeant approached them.

"Gentlemen," the drill sergeant said, "in all my time as a united states marine, I have never seen such a display as the one you two took it upon yourselves to demonstrate today."

Breathing hard and nostrils flaring like a bull, he continued, "Brawling in public, on military property, in your uniform, without any technique or discipline like common alleyway scum. JAG will be seeing both of you and on your heads be it."

He turned aside and nodded to the brig officer before leaving the room stiffly, leaving them to face their punishment. The brig officer on duty got up and walked over to them, holding a piece of paper that both Schofield and Sanchez knew contained their fates.

Face impassive, he began to read.

First, he addressed Schofield.

"You, Sir" he began, "are charged with Article 133: Conduct Unbecoming an Officer and a Gentleman; and Article 114: Duelling."

"And you," he said turning to Sanchez, "are charged with Article 89: Disrespect towards a Superior Commissioned Officer, Article 90: Assault of Superior Commissioned Officer, and Article 114: Duelling."

"You will both face Article 32 hearings before the Judge Advocate General to determine the severity of your actions, which may lead to a court-martial under the United States Military Code of Justice."

"Goodnight gentlemen."

And with that, he left them alone in the dark, dank cell.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Apologies for the short chapter but it just seemed right to finish it there. Besides, this chapter is really not that much shorter than other chapters. It's only the absence of a very long author's note that's making it appear shorter.

Review and I'll love you forever, even if it's just to tell me you think it sucks.

Chapter 7

Having watched Schofield and Sanchez be dragged off by the drill sergeant, the remaining members of the unit sank onto the benches in the change room in stunned disbelief. It was Skip who finally broke the brooding silence.

"What the hell is going on in this unit?" She asked.

Her question remained unanswered but she caught the significant look that passed between Book II and Mother and comprehension dawned in her own eyes, "You two know? Don't you?" She asked with a sharp inquisitiveness.

They both looked up guiltily to find every pair of eyes in the room fixed upon them. Mother opened her mouth as though about to say something but Book cut her off.  
>"No," he said, addressing Mother, "I told you, you told Ralph and both times the shit hit the fan. I for one, am gonna learn from that lesson and keep my mouth shut and you'd best do the same!"<p>

Mother stared at Book for a moment after his uncharacteristic outburst before recovering her voice long enough to say, "I wasn't gonna say nothing." Turning to look at the others but especially addressing Skip, who, as the newest member of the team perhaps didn't understand their history, "Except that Sanchez has been pushing Scarecrow's buttons since he got here and I'm surprised he waited this long to give the little upstart shit a good kicking."

"Don't."

The voice that spoke was Bigfoot's. He stood up, towering over them all, a gentle giant.

"Don't blame all this on Pancho," he said, "Now I know what I heard, and what Pancho heard, and yeah, I'm sure that he would've riled Scarecrow up 'bout it but don't pretend like none of this would've happened if Scarecrow hadn't been keeping secrets. I heard about what happened in Antarctica with them ICG fucks and I would 'a though that if any unit was gonna understand the importance of trusting each other, it'd be you guys."

If Book's outburst had been uncharacteristic, then Bigfoot's was downright alien. Few of them had ever heard him string as many words together as this. He looked at them as if daring them to contradict him, but when he spoke again it was still in his soft, slow voice.  
>"Pancho ain't a bad bloke. Neither's the Scarecrow for that matter, whatever he might be," he said pointedly, looking at Book and Mother.<br>"Maybe they just needed to punch each other and get it out of their systems."

He suddenly seemed to realise that he'd spoken, in front of the entire group nonetheless. He sat down quickly and stiffly, hands on his knees and face slightly abashed. Book II looked up at him slowly, before giving him an understanding nod.

It was Rebound who broke the slightly tense atmosphere this time, "Well that's all good and proper, but we've still got no fucking idea what's going on." His voice was bright and cheerful, as Rebound always was.

"And that's the way it's gonna stay," Mother growled at him, drowning his endless optimism.

Left alone with nothing but Sanchez and his thoughts for company Schofield felt utterly wretched. He couldn't believe what a mess he'd got himself into and berated himself mentally.  
>Over a stupid fight, he could lose his command, his commission, possibly even his job.<br>He didn't think his offence was severe enough to warrant a significant time in the brig though.

Sanchez, on the other hand, could be spending quite a bit of time in a cell very much like this one for assaulting an officer. Surprisingly, that thought brought Schofield little pleasure. The night here so far had been long and miserable. He couldn't imagine spending an extended period of time here. He wouldn't wish that on anyone, even Sanchez.

Not that he thought Sanchez was harbouring any sympathetic thoughts for him. Shane was well aware that one word from Sanchez about why they were brawling and it would be a quiet dishonourable discharge for him.

Finally, he looked up at Sanchez. They had both remained stubbornly silent thus far. Schofield was reminded forcefully of another situation in which he had been locked in a room little bigger than this cell, with another man he'd despised. On that occasion, he had tried to put aside his animosity and work together to get them both out of there.  
>The other bloke had tried to kill him anyway.<br>The sickening image of a drill plunger cracking through his skull with a burst of blood filled Shane's mind. He hastily pushed that image away and filed it in a corner of his mind with other memories he wanted to forget.

He didn't consider his victory in that fight as a triumph, and he certainly wanted nothing of the same sort to happen again. The absence of a drill plunger in their little cell would help in that regard; but he was quite sure that Sanchez would be just as unwilling to try and work with him as Snake had been.

Schofield continued to look at Sanchez until the prickling sensation of being watched crept across the other man's features, and he met Shane's scarred eyes.

"What," he spat, nose crinkling into an expression of disdain.

Having got his attention, Schofield was suddenly unsure what he was going to say. He settled instead for fiddling with the now grimy bandage wrapped around his injured hand.

"Why don't you like me?" He asked softly after a minute. Even to his ears, the question sounded childish and he waited for whatever scathing retort Sanchez would surely return.

"Don't like faggots."

The answer surprised Schofield, not the sentiment expressed, but the answer itself. It was evasive. Sanchez must've known he would see through it in a second. In a roundabout way, he was expressing his reluctance to answer the question but giving Shane permission to continue to ask anyway.

Schofield snuffed a small laugh, finding that the answer didn't sting as much as he expected it would.

"Sticks and stones, Sanchez. Besides," he pressed on, "I'm no dumb grunt and that answer was bullshit. You've had a problem with me long before you knew... you know." He broke eye contact and started fiddling with the bandage again.

"You're not denying it then?"

"Is there any point?"

It was Sanchez's turn to allow a small chuckle to escape his lips. "Not really, no," he replied.

The banter between them was, shockingly, almost light-hearted. Between them, neither could remember having exchanged this many if not civil, then lacking in animosity words before. Schofield quirked a half smile and leant back against the cold, metal wall, crossing his arms over his chest, mirroring Sanchez.  
>"You're avoiding the question."<p>

Sanchez leant forward, stared straight at Schofield.  
>"That was the point, Captain."<p>

Schofield looked around the dark cell before turning back to Sanchez, "Look, we're could be in this situation for a while. I reckon you can call me Shane." He laughed - full and rich this time, the sound exploding though the dank atmosphere of the brig - at the incredulous look on Sanchez's face. "Scarecrow, then, If you can manage it."

Sanchez continued to look at him, though his expression softened to something resembling affability. A smile almost gracing his haughty features. After a moment of relatively comfortable silence, Sanchez spoke again. His voice was so unlike the one Schofield thought he knew. Instead of being full of silky confidence, it was quiet and frank,

"My Father's an ex-marine major. He was mighty proud when I got assigned to unit one. Not so proud when I got shunted sideways into your unit, _Scarecrow._" He said. "Prestige is very important to my father and sometimes, it's a lot to live up to."

Schofield was stunned; not only by the rare candid moment, but by how close to home Sanchez's words hit him. He chose his words carefully,  
>"I'm sorry I'm not the Buck."<p>

"The Buck turned out to be a fucking traitor," Sanchez said bitterly. He looked up and caught Shane's intense gaze,  
>"What?" He said looking him up and down, "I'm not saying anymore. I don't do deep and meaningful conversations, especially not with pansies."<p>

Schofield ignored the last comment, understanding that it wasn't meant in a particularly malicious way. He looked out the small window set high in the cell wall so that he couldn't really see out of it. What he could see was a pale waxy moon that provided the only illumination into the cell. Night had well and truly fallen. He smiled at Sanchez, in the way that only two men who have finally beaten the shit out of each other can, before turning over on his small, uncomfortable regulation military cot and trying to fall asleep in the cold cell.

"Night Pancho," he said softly.

He was pleasantly surprised to hear in return, a quiet,  
>"Night Scarecrow."<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: So I did a little more research on military housing. Turns out enlisted marines who want to live on base are housed in barracks, kinda like boarding school for grown ups. Though I believe that on _some_ bases, married enlisted marines can be eligible for an actual house. So other than Mother and Schofield, the other marines in this story would all be living together. Schofield, as an officer, could qualify for a couple of different types of housing. Married officers, especially those with kids, usually qualify for an actual house. Single officers might be lucky and get a house but given the large amount of marines who want to live on base you'd have to be seriously lucky. More likely is, he'd qualify for a studio apartment or even just a private room in the barracks. I think the truth is that officers are housed in separate barracks to enlisted men but the story just works better if they're housed together, so I'm gonna plead artistic licence there. Of course, housing on base is limited in itself, so you might have to wait a while to get a place at all. Hence why lots of marines do rent separate places off base whilst waiting for a base placement to come through. So that's Schofield's current situation I'd say, waiting for a place/room to come through. Only since I've already written it that Book II is also living in independent housing, that's gonna stay. I guess he might still be a bit ticked off with the military housing people after what happened to his mother.

Oh, and JAG functions as the legal branch of all areas of the US armed forces and its members come from all different areas, Army, Navy, and Air force. They wear the uniform of their respective section.

And I'm feeling pretty light on muse at the moment, apologies if that's coming through in the chapters, so a flood of reviews would be wonderful!

Chapter 8

It seemed like only seconds had passed before his not so peaceful sleep was disturbed by a booming female voice.  
>"Boys, this is your Mother speaking," it said, loudly, "and you have both been very naughty."<p>

Schofield rolled over and groaned, hearing Sanchez beside him do the same. He passed a hand over his tired eyes before reaching out sleepily to grab his sunglasses, succeeding only in knocking them off the grimy little table he'd left them on.

He pulled himself into an upright position and opened his eyes a crack, wincing a little at the morning sunlight that now bathed the little cell. He had become accustomed to the dark.

Opening them fully, he saw Mother leaning cheerily up against the bars and Sanchez, looking ready to murder her. Unshaven, clothes rumpled and hair still messed from sleep, Schofield thought Sanchez looked a mess. But then again, he highly doubted he looked any better after their night in the brig.

The desk officer came over holding a set of keys. Mother jerked her head at the unsmiling officer, "He said I could take you home if you promise to behave. Else I'll have to punish you," She said with a wicked smile affixed to her face.

He found he couldn't bring himself to laugh, thoughts of the impending court martial consuming his mind. Nonetheless, as the brig officer reluctantly made his way over to let them out, keys jingling loudly in his hand, Schofield pushed his sore body off the bed, eager to be out of the miserable little cell. Beside him, Sanchez did exactly the same.

Approaching the door, he stared into the eyes of the officer holding his freedom. They were devoid of any emotion. As the cell door swung open, both men dived toward it unceremoniously and headed rapidly for the door where sunlight was seeping under the frame. But a voice called them back, "Not so fast," the officer said.

He directed them to two separate rooms set off to the side of the brig. Schofield entered, confused, to see a tall man in a set of crisp Navy service whites. His insignia told Schofield that he was JAG.

"Captain Schofield," he said by way of greeting, "Sit down."

Schofield took a seat on one side of the rickety table that was the only piece of furniture in the room. The lawyer sat opposite him, calmly surveying him. Maybe it was just military superstition, but Schofield would've preferred a marine.

The lawyer picked up a file and began to read, "Captain Shane M. Schofield, call sign Scarecrow, decorated United States Marine, charged with conduct unbecoming an officer and duelling. Pray tell me captain, what made you punch one of your men?"

Schofield said nothing.

The lawyer sighed in exasperation and put down the file, leaning across the table towards Schofield.  
>"Captain," he said, "I can help you but only if you co-operate with me."<p>

Schofield still said nothing.

"Fine," he said. The frustration was now evident in his voice. "Let's start by talking about the charges against you. Conduct unbecoming an officer is really a non-issue by itself. The duelling charge is really the problem. If you're found guilty of duelling, then you will also, by default, be found guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer and that will compound whatever punishment the court sees fit to deliver.

Let me make this very clear, we are talking about discharge here."

His voice reached Schofield as though over a distance but the word discharge brought him startlingly back to reality. He looked up and met the eyes of the lawyer for the first time. He wasn't trying to be obstinate in his silence, but he couldn't really see a way out of this predicament. Opening his mouth had been the source of all his current problems and he couldn't see how saying anything more would do anything but lose him everything. Perhaps the lawyer understood that just from the look in his eyes because he kept talking, relieved to see the marine finally engage with him.

"I understand you're scared but you need to know that if this goes to trial, dishonourable discharge is a real possibility. That's why I'm going to try and prevent this going to trial. The report I've received does imply that the incident for which you're being tried was little more than a locker room brawl. That's the angle we go for, that the charges are grossly inproportionate to the crime. We aim for non-judicial punishment by your base commander."

Schofield swore he'd been listening and taking it all in, but when he finally opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was  
>"Marines don't get scared."<p>

Yet in his head, he distinctly heard his own words, 'fear is not an ineffective emotion.'

Meanwhile, in his own identical little room, Sanchez was sitting nervously though with his ever present appearance of aloofness, as his lawyer railed at him about how serious a charge assaulting an officer was. She paced the small room, cutting a sharp figure in her dark blue Army service uniform, before stopping abruptly in front of the table Sanchez sat at. She turned to face him and said, "Sergeant, you do realise you can be discharged for this."

"Dishonourable discharge and time in military prison," she continued, trying to press the point, "that means no benefits, no pension, no commendation and your life down the drain. So you'd better tell me why you hit your CO so I can try and save your ass."

"I didn't hit him," Sanchez said sullenly. She snorted in disbelief so he quickly amended it to, "Well, I didn't hit him first at least."

"Wait," she exclaimed, a feisty look filling her eyes. "You didn't hit him first?"

"That's what I said, isn't it."

"He hit you?" She continued.

"That would be the logical conclusion."

She resumed her pacing again. "This is brilliant," she said, "you can't be charged with assault if you were the victim."

Sanchez prickled indignantly, "I can look after myself, I wasn't no victim here. I hit him back."

"Yes," she explained with just a hint of condescension in her voice, "but as long as he threw the first punch then he was the attacker, and your response was justifiable self-defence. Ergo, there was no assault on your behalf."

He paused for a moment before saying, "I might have provoked him." A barely visible hint of shame coloured his cheeks.

"But I don't think he can use that to defend himself," he added hurriedly, when the lawyer's face dropped. The expression of clear exasperation quickly turned to one of confusion and curiosity.  
>"Why not?" She asked.<p>

"I can't tell you." He didn't like the Scarecrow, and they'd had their differences, but he wasn't out to deliberately ruin the man's life.

"Sergeant," she said forcefully, leaning on the desk, the threat in her eyes clear and said "there is nothing you can't tell me. Believe me, he will tell his lawyer everything he can to get himself off the hook. I don't want any surprises when we enter that courtroom."

"That's just it," Sanchez returned just as forcefully, "he'll be looking at discharge if he tries to defend himself like that."

"Well that's just fucking wonderful isn't it," she countered. "So you expect me to go into that court and argue that this was a spontaneous, unprovoked attack upon you and hope like hell that the other side doesn't contradict me. Sounds like you're trying to sandbag me sergeant."

"Look," Sanchez said, trying to make her understand and regretting he'd said anything in the first place, "he's not gonna say anything. He'd damned if he does, and damned if he doesn't. Besides, we're not being trialled against each other. It's the Corp that's bringing the charges against us both, so it doesn't matter what happens to him anyway."

"It won't matter if this goes to general court martial where you will be tried separately. But this is only an article 32 hearing and given that the cases directly affect each other, the judge will listen to all the evidence together, so what one of you says will affect the other. My aim is to stop this before it gets to general court martial, at least for you."

Sanchez sat silently as she continued to talk at him, "Of course, even if the assault charge against you is dropped, which it really should be, you're still facing the duelling charge but I should be able to handle that. After all, it's only one minor charge, even if they do decide to proceed with disciplinary action it's not severe enough on its own to warrant a court martial, we should recommend non-judicial punishment."

Sanchez was only half listening but he was pretty sure she was half talking to herself anyway. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something in her cold ambitious eyes made his uneasy. Perhaps it was the way she talked about the trial like it was a challenge, a game, when it was his and Schofield's careers that hung in the balance.

"Sure," the navy lawyer answered, laughing a little but not unkindly at Schofield. "Now you're talking, do you think you can tell me why you punched him?"

"No," he said simply.

"Why not?"

"Just can't."

It was a battle of wills, but the lawyer looked away first. "Fine," he huffed, shuffling papers and eventually pushing one towards Schofield. "Captain, this report indicates that you threw the first punch. That means the judge is going to primarily put the blame for this on you. Fights don't start out of nothing, we need to prove that the other bloke was equally as culpable as you. Rest assured he's got a lawyer in there too, trying to prove this is all your fault. You need a reason here."

He looked over the paper, before saying "I still can't tell you," quieter this time.

Lawyers, despite all their faults, have a habit of being rather perceptive. He looked at Schofield for a moment, as if assessing him before asking astutely, "Can I ask then?"

When Schofield shook his head, looking down at his hands, he leaned back in his chair and said simply, "I see."

He continued to look at Schofield until the marine finally lifted his head and met his eyes. Hands clasped on the table, he continued seriously.

"Captain, let me explain something to you. If you told me you'd killed someone, I'd still have to walk into that courtroom and tell them you didn't. In here, there is absolute confidentiality and if I told anyone something that would later incriminate you, I would be neglectful in my duties as your defence lawyer. It is my job to defend you, no matter what."

"Were you provoked?" He asked smoothly.

Schofield nodded.

"But we can't use that?"

He shook his head.

"Dammit." The lawyer cursed.

He stood up abruptly and turned to look out the small window, as though he couldn't bring himself to look at Shane as he said, "Captain, I don't think we can win this one."

Schofield sat, head bowed, and said softly, "I know."

"Thank you," he called out as the lawyer picked up his file and briefcase and made to leave the room. Hearing that, he paused at the door.

"What for?" He said, and left.

He sat alone, in silence for a moment before realising he was free to go, at least for now. As he left the small meeting room and re-entered the reception area of the brig, he found Mother still waiting for him. Sanchez was nowhere to be seen, still in with his lawyer most likely. He still found himself struck with the same inability to speak he'd felt in the room, so he waited, silently, with Mother until Sanchez came out of his room. His walk lacked his usual saunter and Schofield felt sure that if he removed his sunglasses, his own eyes would mirror the hollow look in Sanchez's. Together, the three of them made to leave the brig but the sunlight and sensation of being outside didn't bring with it the earlier sensation of relief and freedom. Rather, all Schofield could feel was a tingling sense of apprehension.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: So I realised something else, Book's actually a bit older than I thought he was. I had thought he was late teens, early twenties but he's not. He's 25. Not that it really makes any difference but yeah, that kind of explains why he and Schofield are close because they really could have been brothers practically. Anyway, I reckon their friendship is pretty incredible so I can promise that there will be no slash between them at all. Slight spoiler for the chapter ahead but hey, that little scene between them is NOT an indication of a potential future relationship but more the ever so slightly awkward moment when a straight friend and a gay friend are sitting there thinking "Shit I hope he doesn't think I like him." That's all.

Oh, and just to mention something quickly. In area 7, there's a description of Schofield in his full dress uniform which includes a white patent leather belt. That's actually only worn by enlisted men. Officers wear a dark blue belt with a gold "M" buckle. Just in case anybody is wondering why I changed that little detail, I decided to go with the correct option though I'm sure Matthew Reilly had his reasons for doing otherwise, personally I reckon the enlisted uniform looks better.

The medals mentioned in this chapter are all real medals, and based on the books Schofield really would be eligible for all of them, pretty impressive for just a captain.

Forgive me if the legal stuff is wrong, I'm not a lawyer but I'm trying my best to get it right.

Chapter 9

By the time he'd returned to Book II's apartment, the feeling had intensified. He found he just wanted to be alone, so he waved Mother and Sanchez off at the ground floor and was relieved to find that Book wasn't home. What his unit was doing, he didn't really know, but for once, he didn't really care either. He thought back to the meeting with the lawyer, it seemed distant already. Then again, his whole past life seemed very distant now and there was nothing he could do to return to it.

"_I know you're scared,_" The lawyer had said but he'd brushed it aside.

He'd risked his life countless times in the course of duty; Bosnia, Antarctica, Area 7 and that fiasco with the bounty hunters, to name only a very few. He'd been tortured and driven to the very extremes of his physical and psychological endurance. Hell, he'd actually died once and yet none of those scenarios had provoked in him the sort of fear he was feeling now.

_I know you're scared._

Fuck yes, he was terrified.

It was as though his whole world was crashing down around him and he was utterly powerless to stop it from happening. He could only watch in silence as everything around him burned.

Powerful waves of fear of what might happen to him, anger at the injustice of it all and a remnant of self-loathing he'd never really been able to shake crashed over him repeatedly until he was beyond overwhelmed. Something seemed to catch in his chest and he couldn't breathe. His mind went into overdrive but even then, he still couldn't remember how to perform the action that had kept him alive for twenty-seven years. He wasn't sure what he would have done if Book II hadn't come home at that moment.

"Honey I'm home," he called out teasingly, "and I brought Indian take-out 'cause I can't cook for shit…" He broke off when he entered the main room to see Schofield on the couch, lips practically blue.

"Shit," he repeated, dropping the plastic bags on his slightly grimy coffee table. He sat on the sofa next to Schofield and grabbed him round the shoulders. "Come on, copy me," he said encouragingly, deliberately making his breaths deep and steady. He put one cautious hand between his shoulder blades and rubbed small circles on his back. He was immensely relieved to see Shane respond, his breathing slowly getting stronger and slower.

For his part, Shane felt like his mind had just rebooted itself. He gasped and began to breathe again, trying to match his shallow, ragged breaths with Book's calm pattern helped bring him back to the ground. He tried not to blush, feeling stupid for succumbing to his panic. As well, he was suddenly aware of Book's proximity to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other wrapped around his back. Perhaps Book noticed it too because they both jumped hastily away from each other and sat awkwardly on the sofa, neither looking at the other.

After a moment of fiddling and avoiding eye contact, Shane said "you said something about Indian?"

"Oh yeah!" Book exclaimed, jumping off the couch to grab the abandoned plastic bags and some plates from the kitchen. Having returned to his senses, Schofield could now appreciate the tantalising smell wafting from the kitchen. His stomach growled loudly as if to remind him that he actually hadn't eaten anything since lunchtime yesterday. Realising he was famished; he jumped up and followed Book into the kitchen. Returning a moment later with plates piled high, they sunk into the couch and tucked in. Neither of them spoke for several minutes, consumed as they were with the important business of dinner.

It was Book, plate considerably emptier, who spoke first. "What caused it?" He asked.

Schofield took him time in answering, carefully considering what he was going to say.  
>"The realisation that there's no way out of this one."<p>

"Don't talk like that," Book chided him, "we've been in way worse situations that this,"

"No," Shane cut him off. "This time there really is no escape, I'm guilty here. I did it, I hit him and now I'll have to face the consequences."  
>His tone was matter of fact.<p>

"Besides, I can't even defend myself without outing myself, and then its discharge anyway." He added, resigned.

"There's gotta be some way."

"There isn't."

Book didn't know what to say. He'd never seen Schofield give up like this. And yet, he seemed remarkably composed. Something in his tone brokered no disagreement.

"Sure, whatever," he said eventually. "You can sleep in the bed if you want, I can take the couch. You're gonna need to be well rested for the trial tomorrow."

Schofield just shook his head, "don't think I'll be getting too much rest anyway, couch's fine."

"Fine," Book echoed, getting up to leave. But before he could, something made him stop. Looking at Schofield, he realised for the first time how young he was. Although the weight of everything he had dealt with over his short life disguised it somewhat, Shane was barely a few years older than himself. Right now, there was something in his eyes that Book had never seen there before.

He tried to say something comforting, something to tell Schofield that he wasn't as alone as he thought he was. "I used to get them too, you know," he said. "Panic attacks," he clarified when Schofield looked up at him, puzzled. He snuffed a disparaging laugh and bowed his head again.

Book sat down again, "After my mother died, I used to dream about her, what she looked like when I found her. I would keep seeing her face even after I'd woken up, and it took a long time to learn to calm myself down after that."

There a long pause, in which Book waited patiently, knowing, in the way that only best friends can, that something was simmering below the surface in Shane and he needed to let it out. Whether or not he knew that was a totally different matter but Book was prepared to sit there in silence until he did.

Finally, he said so softly Book might have missed it had he not been listening hard,  
>"I just feel so ashamed."<p>

The silence resumed but Book didn't press it, hoping that Schofield would keep talking of his own accord.

He didn't.

So Book asked as imperceptibly as he could, "Of?"

"Everything," he said.

Then, "I'm so damn scared of tomorrow but at the same time I'm so tired of hiding and then I get angry at the Corp and the world and life in general for putting me in this fucking situation." The words seemed to spill out of him like a torrent bursting free from a dam. "But I know I should be better than that, I am better than that."

He paused for a moment as if contemplating whether or not to continue, but eventually he did, first slowly and cautiously but gathering speed as he went, "But there's also a part of me, not as big as it used to be, but still a part of me that believes they're right and that I should be ashamed, that there's something wrong with me and I've got to keep it a secret, only then I'm ashamed of feeling like that because it shouldn't be a problem and plenty of other people manage just fine but I can't and it gets so confusing sometimes I think I might explode."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop" Book said, trying to process it all and suddenly understanding Schofield's dilemma a lot better. "You my friend, have an inferiority complex because basically, what you're saying is that you're ashamed to be human."  
>"No, shut up and let me speak," he said when Schofield tried to protest. "It's normal to be afraid and angry," he added. "Your pissed off with yourself because you think you've got to be perfect all the time, never let that bloody impenetrable mask of yours down but you can't always do that and sooner or later something's got to give and you know what, it's okay to do that as well."<p>

"When my mother died, I thought no one could help me, that I was all alone but that's what friends are for. So when you get tired of being The Scarecrow, around me and Mother and everybody else who gives a damn about you, you can just be Shane, and we're not going to think any the worse of you."

He was a little taken aback by the force of Book's words.

He nodded, staring at his hands.

Book stood up to leave again, "Sleep," he said, "you'll need it for tomorrow."

Schofield tried, but he found it impossible to calm his mind enough to allow sleep to take him. He sighed and turned his mind instead to Barnaby's solution. The man might have been a bastard, but Schofield still found his advice useful.

_What was the problem at hand?_

He was gay, everybody was about to find out and the marines were going to throw him out.

_How are you going to fix it?_

And there was where he hit his biggest problem. He couldn't fix it. He couldn't change who he was, though god knows he'd tried, he wasn't sure he wanted to continue trying to stop people finding out anymore and there was bugger all he could do if the marines decided to chuck him for it.

Suddenly, something the original Book Riley had said came back to him. After Bosnia, when he got out of hospital and his life as he knew it had seemed over because he would never fly again, he had been ready to give it all up but Book had said to him "It's our choices that make us who we really are."

Like then, he could choose to just give up, walk into that courtroom and let them end it for him.

Or he could take control, walk in with his head held high and defend himself.

The outcome might be the same, but Schofield understood now that it was his choices that made all the difference. His mind at ease, he finally managed to fall asleep in the early hours of the morning.

When the sun came up a few hours later, he rolled off the couch and headed for the hall cupboard where he'd hung up his only items of clothing worth hanging up. He flung open the door perhaps a little stronger than was necessary. The thump of the door against the wall must have woken Book II up because Shane heard him groan and a moment later he ambled out of his bedroom.

"I'll make us some breakfast then?" He said as he walked past Schofield.

"Can I use the bathroom?" Schofield called back by way of reply.

He stopped and stared at his dress uniform hanging pristine in the cupboard for a moment. Then, shaking his head slightly to himself, he grabbed it and the box tucked discreetly behind it and headed for the bathroom.

He was reluctant to get out of the shower, the warm water helped to calm his nerves a little but he couldn't avoid it forever so he dunked his head one last time under the spray before shutting off the water and reaching for a towel.

A few minutes later, he stood, fully dressed in front of the full length mirror in Book's bedroom whilst Book was still bustling around in the kitchen, attempting and most likely failing dismally, to produce some sort of edible breakfast.

Shane looked at himself critically. Tall and lean, with his red-striped trousers, jacket deliberately tailored to fit his muscular frame and belt cinched to accentuate his trim waist and broad shoulders, he took great pride in wearing his full dress uniform and knew it looked good on him. Today however, his white gloved hands clutched a box he rarely pulled out. A box he'd only brought with him because they were too precious to be left in storage, never thinking he might need them. Today however, he'd decided to make a statement.

He looked at his scarred eyes. Normally, he would have reached instinctively for sunglasses to cover the disfigurement. Today, he wore them with pride, as a sign of his service to his country.

He opened the box to reveal a number of smaller, felt lined boxes. He opened them each, one by one, to reveal the gleaming medals within. Slowly and carefully, he affixed each one to his chest.

The Distinguished Flying Medal; for his service in Bosnia

The Prisoner of War medal; awarded to him for his honourable conduct whilst captured by hostile forces in Bosnia

The Purple Heart; to recognise that he had been injured, severely, in Bosnia whilst serving his country

The Marine Corp Commendation Medal; for sustained acts of valour over the years of his service

The Navy Cross; for acts of heroism at Wilkes Ice station in Antarctica

and finally, The Medal of Honour; the highest award any soldier can hope to receive, awarded to him by no less than the president of the United States

He grabbed his white peaked hat and decorative sword, took one last long look at himself and walked out the door.

In the kitchen, Book had managed to make some only slightly burnt toast. The smell of other failed attempts lingered in the small room, despite the fact that he had opened a window to try and disguise it. Schofield tried to laugh but found that his voice was sticking in his throat.

Plan or no plan, he was still too nervous to eat more than a couple of bites and all too soon, they were heading for the courthouse.

The building itself was imposing, a dark brick monstrosity in the centre of Washington D.C. with sharp white windows and the various insignias of the army, navy and air force displayed on the front façade. Schofield and Book II passed by the two straight-backed soldiers standing on guard at the entrance, through the white columned façade and into an elegant marble hallway. He would have been impressed if he'd been able to focus.

He saw a familiar face and the navy lawyer, whose name he didn't even know, beckoned him over. He glanced over his shoulder at Book, who, as an observer, could go no further. Book nodded at him in a reassuring sort of way before allowing himself to be shepherded into the courtroom. For his part, Schofield went and stood beside his lawyer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sanchez, standing beside a feisty-looking female lawyer. He also looked unusually rattled. He tried to give him an encouraging smile, but found his muscles were wound tight and reluctant to loosen. He settled for a jerk of his head, which Sanchez returned.

The lawyer, turned to him and whispered orders at him, only half of which he heard, before he headed into the courtroom looking grim. There were several cases to be heard today and he was at the end of the list with Sanchez immediately before him. They would not be allowed in the courtroom whilst the other cases were in session. Instead, he would wait with the other defendants outside, under the watchful eye of a chubby security guard armed with a small baton. Schofield felt sure that if it came down to a fight between them, he would win.

He took his seat on the hard wooden bench next to Sanchez to wait his turn. He was going to try and say something to him but a warning glare from the guard stopped him. They sat in silence.

The line dwindled.  
>Both of them became more nervous with each passing minute that brought their hearings closer.<br>All of a sudden, it was Sanchez's turn. His name was called and he left.

Time was behaving funny that day, having raced to this point, it suddenly slowed down. It seemed to Schofield like an age as he waited alone. His hands had started to shake a little involuntarily.

The hall was silent apart from the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the muffled sounds of the guard's shuffling, when abruptly, the door to the courtroom was flung open and Sanchez appeared.

He was grinning.

"Guilty on both counts," he said, "but let off with only non-judicial punishment, so no trial."

Schofield breathed a sigh of relief. Sanchez would not be severely punished.

The security guard didn't like Sanchez speaking to Schofield, it wasn't allowed and so he headed towards them to scare him off. Likewise, feisty little lawyer who had followed him out of the court tried to shepherd him out the door, but he managed to get out one more thing before he left,

"I didn't say anything," he said with a wink, and then, he was gone.

Schofield was grateful for that little gesture of kindness by Sanchez but it didn't change what he was going to do in the court. He didn't have long to ponder the matter though, as the doors to the courtroom suddenly opened again, and a commanding voice called out,

'Captain Schofield v the Marine Corp'

Schofield stood up straight and walked through the door, ready to face whatever fate had prepared for him.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: A long note, but as it's probably going to be the last one, please read it anyway!

Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, so here's two to make up for it!

A little on the Don't Ask Don't Tell policy; so it was initiated by the Clinton government as a compromise policy. What Clinton was trying to do was completely overturn the policy that prevented homosexual people serving in the armed forces full stop. However, the conservatives in the government (and in society) would not have that at all and after a fair bit of bickering, DADT was decided on as a compromise, homosexuals could serve but only if they kept their mouth shut. The military was forbidden from explicitly asking its members about their sexual orientation for as long as they didn't say anything or act in an overtly gay manner. Under the policy, if you came out then you would normally get an administrative (i.e. you don't have to face an actual court martial to be issued with one) general (i.e. not dishonourable) discharge. But if you got caught in a compromising position or with any other complicating factors, you get a dishonourable discharge, which is a pretty severe punishment for, in my opinion, a ridiculous "crime." The current Obama government is in the process of repealing DADT however, that process in itself takes a while and the policy will not be officially removed until late this year. At the same time, seven years have passed in our world but not for the world of the Scarecrow, so he's still facing the full brunt of the policy.

I wrote this story to bring attention to the fact that it is a horrible discriminatory policy which can seriously ruin the lives of good people who are just trying to serve their country. I could have chosen any of the characters in the books to write this about but I chose Scarecrow because he's the character that will resonate the most with people and because he is a bit of an enigma, ergo easy to screw around with.

Huge thank you if you read this the whole way through (ridiculously long notes and all) and an even bigger thank you to the two people who reviewed, this isn't a particularly active fandom so that you two took the time to give me a bit of encouragement when I needed it was very much appreciated. Even if you didn't like it, I hope it made you think.

Thanks, and that's all, here's a nice long chapter to finish it off.

Chapter 10

Captain Shane M. Schofield, United States Marine Corp, walked purposefully into the room with his head held high. The medals on his chest clinked softly as he moved. Something about the man exuded a calm composure and grace under fire.

To Schofield, the walk down the narrow isle seemed to take forever but he kept his eyes fixed on the empty seat beside his lawyer and did not turn his head either left or right the entire way down. Shane took his place beside the lawyer, standing straight-backed and sure, before looking up for the first time at the judge. He was an older man. His skin was as dark as night but with his moustache was flecked with white. Schofield thought he looked tired but not unkind. Since this was only an article 32 hearing, Schofield would be tried by the judge as opposed to a jury of his peers. He indicated for them to be seated and the court sat as one.

The judge, seated high above the crowd, shuffled through some papers before turning his attention to those seated in the front.

The glasses he wore twinkled in the bright light of the courtroom, they slipped a little down the bridge of his nose as he peered at them pensively, before saying in a calming, steady voice with a southern drawl, "Councils may begin making their opening statements."

The prosecution had the right to go first, so Schofield watched in forced silence as another lanky naval lawyer stood up and began to speak confidently and articulately about how his disgraceful actions had shown contempt for his commission and his country. It wasn't helpful to listen to himself be belittled and accused in such a manner so Shane tried to tune it out, his heart was now thumping loudly in his chest and ears, making it easy to do.

The prosecutor concluded and inclined his head at the judge and the court before returning to his seat. Smoothly, his own lawyer stood up and began making his own eloquent remarks. Though it sounded very impressive, it was all legal jargon to Schofield and he found he heard even less of this speech than the previous, the thumping becoming so wild he was sure the entire court could hear it. Phrases such as "inconclusive evidence" and "recommended non-judicial punishment" jumped out at him amongst the verbose address but he could make little sense of it.

He was glad when the lawyer returned to the seat next to him. The judge started to shuffle his papers again and Schofield saw his opportunity. He tapped the lawyer on the shoulder and said quietly, "I want to take the stand."

The lawyer turned to face him abruptly with a stunned look on his face. They hadn't discussed this and it wasn't part of his plan. He hissed back at him, "if I call you up, the prosecution has the right to cross-examine you and I'm reminding you now that you will be under oath. You'll have to tell them the truth and that would be a very bad idea."

The judge looked at them with his piercing eyes, "Something wrong, councillor?" He asked.

The lawyer continued to look at Schofield, saw the determination in his startling blue eyes behind the equally startling scars. Eyes still fixed on Schofield, he replied "No sir."

"Then you may call your first witness."

With a great deal of reluctance, the lawyer spoke, "the defence calls Captain Schofield to the stand."

Shane made his way up to the slightly raised witness booth on the left hand side of the courtroom. He settled himself in the worn wooded seat and looked around the courtroom for the first time.  
>What he saw sure as hell didn't make him feel any better.<br>Sitting a couple of rows back, all in pressed dress uniforms, sat six smiling faces that he recognised.  
>Book and Mother, who he spared a small smile for. Their presence was reassuring;<br>Bigfoot, who looked as calm and controlled as he always did. Schofield really wasn't sure what was going on in the big man's head, or if he'd even worked out what he'd overheard meant;  
>Skip and Astro, looking very young and out of place in the severe courtroom;<br>And Rebound, a bundle of nervous energy as always.

For a minute, Schofield wished he wasn't in command of them. That he could have just been one of the thousands of enlisted men with a superior to confide in, instead of being the role model to look up to. Suddenly, his sight was filled with a young corporal standing in front of him, holding out a bible for him to swear oath on.

The brown leather was soft and smooth beneath his hand and he was glad to hear his voice was steady, not betraying even a hint of fear, when he spoke,  
>"I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God."<p>

"Captain," the lawyer began as he paced the narrow stretch of floor in front of the bench, "can you tell the court about your military service."

"Objection, relevance?" The prosecuting lawyer was on his feet in seconds.

"I'm inclined to agree, councillor. Where is this line of questioning going?" The judge replied.

His own lawyers response was quick, "I'm trying to establish a character profile sir, demonstrate that the actions which Captain Schofield is charged with were an isolated, out of character event in a distinguished military career."

"Fine, I'll allow it but I want it quick, Captain," the judge said addressing Schofield directly, "It's been a long day."

Schofield thought for a moment before he spoke, he was generally a very modest person but even that couldn't hide that he did have one hell of a service record.

"I joined the corp right out of college," he said, "served on the U.S.S. Wasp, first lieutenant flight status, fought in Bosnia and Serbia but I was shot down and injured, couldn't fly again after that." He touched the two scars running down his eyelids briefly for emphasis before continuing,  
>"Been a ground marine ever since, served in recon, special ops and presidential detachment and done tour of duty all over the place from Antarctica to Afghanistan."<p>

The lawyer continued to pace, "That's a medal of honour you're wearing, correct?"

"Yes sir," he said.

"That's a pretty high award, how'd you get it?

"It's classified, sir."

The lawyer laughed a little, "Of course," he said, "but only the President of the United States himself has the authority to award those, right?"

"Yes, sir."

The other lawyer was back on his feet, "Objection, relevance again?" He said shortly.

"Sustained," the judge replied, "keep your questions to the task at hand councillor."

The lawyer inclined his head at the judge before resuming his questions.  
>"There were no witnesses to the fight between yourself and corporal Sanchez were there Captain?"<p>

The prosecutor got there first before Schofield could answer, "Objection, he's leading the witness."

Before the judge could say anything, his lawyer said "I'll rephrase; were there any witnesses to the fight in question Captain?"

"Only the end of it, sir," Schofield said.

"So nobody actually saw what happened," he said smoothly then hastily adding "Withdrawn" before the prosecution could object yet again. Even though the statement would be disallowed, by saying it anyway he had at least been able to point it out to the judge.

"Can you tell me what the relationship between yourself and Corporal Sanchez is like, Captain?" He asked, hoping like hell that he hadn't just asked an inappropriate question.

"We've had our differences," came Schofield's innocuous reply and the lawyer breathed a sigh of relief.

The lawyer stopped his pacing and stood in front of Schofield, he asked, "If you don't get on, why did you select him for your unit?"

A couple of seconds passed before Schofield answered, "We've worked together before in a different recon unit I was in command of. He's a good man and a good soldier, personal differences or no, I could trust him with my life."

"So you at least are capable of putting aside your 'personal differences' as you put it for the sake of professionalism," he said smoothly and wasn't surprised to hear a slightly weary voice behind him say, "Objection."

"Withdrawn," he added, smiling slightly.

Turning to the judge, he said "no further questions your honour." He hadn't been prepared to question Schofield and he wanted him off the stand as quickly as possible before he could do any damage. As he returned to his seat, he saw the prosecution lawyer stand up and stride towards Schofield. In his seat, he quickly uttered a silent prayer to a whole host of gods he didn't believe in that the prosecutor wouldn't tear Schofield to shreds and that Schofield himself wouldn't say anything too stupid.

The prosecuting lawyer approached Schofield as a lion might approach a particularly tasty looking piece of meat.

"How is it, Captain," he leered a little, "that on a crowded marine base there could be no witnesses to your little fight?"

Schofield was calm in his response. "Most of the other marines on base were involved in drill practice but I had been injured so my unit were free to go. They were all in the showers and Sanchez and I were alone in the locker room."

"Why weren't you in the showers as well?"

"I had to return the rifle we were using. One of the boys left it in the locker room so I went to retrieve it."

The defence lawyer let out the breath he didn't even realise he had been holding. Maybe Schofield wasn't suicidal after all.

"And Corporal Sanchez? Why wasn't he in the showers?" He locked eyes with Schofield, who refused to back down from the challenge and said as coolly as he could muster,  
>"You'd have to ask him, sir."<p>

"You didn't plan to meet there and work out some of your, er, 'personal differences'?"

"No, sir."

"So it was a spontaneous attack then?"

Schofield's cool exterior cracked a little and he leant forward in his chair, "It wasn't like that sir. It was just a minor disagreement."

The lawyer stood directly in front of Schofield, who, even though he was seated in the raised witness stand, was still slightly below his eye level. Looking down at him, at the healing cut on his lip and the shiner which partially obscured his right scar, he said, "That's some pretty impressive bruising for a minor disagreement, Captain."

"We're marines, sir," Schofield replied, "These injuries are nothing."

"I wasn't aware marines bruised that easily," the lawyer replied coldly.

Schofield stood up at the same time as his own lawyer did.

The lawyer managed to speak first, "Objection," he called, "he's badgering my witness."

"Sustained," the judge said sharply, "Councillor, tone it down and confine your questions to the scope of cross-examination; Captain, sit down!"

Schofield resumed his seat and glared at the lawyer, who had begun to pace the room with long confident strides.

He stopped abruptly at one end of the room and, without looking at Schofield, said "All right then Captain, in your own words, why don't you tell the court exactly what happened."

Shane took a deep breath before he began to speak.  
>"I went to retrieve the gun," he said, "and Sanchez was there in the locker room. He stopped me from leaving, he provoked me and I was already pretty wound up. I just couldn't deal with it right then, so -"<p>

"So you hit him?" The lawyer cut across him.

"Yes," Schofield said softly, staring at his lap, "and I'm not proud of it."

"And what sort of provocation, to your mind, justifies assaulting a man, Captain?" The lawyer asked.

Schofield was silent for a long moment, so the lawyer turned to look him. "Well, Captain," he pressed.

"I can't say," he said. His voice shook a tiny amount to match the slight tremble in his hands.

"I beg your pardon?" The prosecutor said menacingly as he walked towards Schofield.

"I said, I can't tell you." His voice was a little stronger now and he looked up to meet the eyes of the lawyer.

"I heard you the first time Captain, now I want to know what you mean by it?" He said, his voice rising with anger.

Book and Mother exchanged a confused look, whilst the defence lawyer also jumped to his feet, hoping to avoid a disaster. "Objection, your honour he's still badgering the witness," He said.

"The witness is hostile, your honour, instruct him to answer the question." The prosecuting lawyer replied sharply, a cold fury evident in his voice.

The judge's voice rang above them both, "Council, approach the bench!"

Both lawyers made their way across the courtroom to stand in front of the judge, who addressed them in a dangerous whisper.  
>"This is my courtroom," he said, "and this is only an article 32 hearing. I've had enough of your showboating, anymore and I'll have you both thrown out for contempt of court. Do I make myself clear?"<p>

Both lawyers murmured a hushed "yes, sir" and returned to their previous positions. The judge then turned his attention to Schofield.  
>"Captain," he addressed him kindly, "you do need to answer the question."<p>

Schofield nodded slightly before opening his mouth to speak, but found that the words wouldn't come. He closed it again and took another deep, shuddering breath, aware of every eye in the court upon him, and tried again.  
>"He'd found out something I didn't want anyone, let alone him, to know," he said slowly, "and he was taunting me about it. He made it sound like he was going to tell everyone else and I couldn't handle the thought of everybody finding out."<p>

He stopped again to draw another deep breath. He was visibly rattled, so the judge held up a hand to stop the prosecution from saying anything and instead asked himself, lines furrowing his face, "Why was he taunting you?"

Schofield looked up, he sought out his unit. Most of them were looking perplexed, except for Book II and Mother, who looked worried.

"He isn't going to, is he?" Book whispered to Mother.  
>"I think he is," Mother replied.<p>

He couldn't say it whilst looking at them all. He didn't want to see the disappointment in their eyes.  
>Instead, he turned back to look at the judge.<p>

For only the second time in his life, he allowed the words to slip past his lips.

"Because I'm gay."

All hell broke loose in the courtroom. The low level photographers and journalists at the back of the courtroom assigned to what everyone had thought would be a monotonous day in court were suddenly about to witness one of the more controversial military policies in action. The cameras flashed and the observers broke out in a babble of conversation and above it all, Mother could be heard to roar, "Ah shit!"

Schofield looked anywhere but the eyes of his marines.

Beside him, the judge brought his gravel down with a mighty crash. "Order," he called.

He sighed and his shoulders seemed to sag a little when he spoke again. "I've heard enough," he said, "I bring this case to a close."

"But … what about closing statements?" The defence lawyer stuttered.

The judge passed a weary hand over his eyes, "You have thirty seconds."

The lawyer stood up quickly and hurriedly gathered the papers he had strewn across his desk.  
>"Your honour," he said, "I just ask that the court remember the offences with which Captain Schofield is being charged and take the irrelevance of any other information provided as well as the Captain's distinguished military career into consideration and as such, be wise and lenient in their decision. Thank you."<br>He sat down just as abruptly, looking thoroughly flustered, knowing it was useless now.

The judge looked at him with one eyebrow raised. "Thank you for telling me how to do my job," he said and the lawyer gulped. "Does the prosecution wish to speak?"

The other lawyer was sitting smug in his seat. "No thank you, your honour. I think it's all been said." He replied.

"Very well, court will adjourn for ten minutes whilst I make my decision." He banged his gravel again, and with that, it was all over.

As the court filed out, Mother tried to shepherd some very stunned young marines out as well. She chucked a quick glance over her shoulder at Schofield, still sitting in the witness stand, looking utterly shell-shocked and a little lost but she couldn't go over to him as another security guard separated them. "Come on you lot," she said a little gruffer than she meant as she steered them out the door.

They collapsed onto some benches just outside the courtroom. None of them spoke. After a minute or two, Rebound was the first to break the heavy silence.

"Was he for real?" He asked, sounding dazed.

It was Book II, leaning up against the wall and staring at the ornate roof that answered.

"Yep," he said without looking at Rebound, "pretty damn real Rebound."

"Is this cause Libby died?" He asked. Something in his voice was almost childlike, pleading, as though this was something he just couldn't understand.

"No," Book answered again, "This has been his secret for a long time, before Libby was even in the picture."

"But he's the Scarecrow."

"And he still is the Scarecrow. Nothing about him has changed, so just deal with it." Book's tone was defensive.

Skip calmly placed a hand on Rebound's shoulder to silence him and spoke up herself, "Nobody's saying anything against him here. Hell, you've all known him a lot longer and better than I have, but even I can tell he's a good bloke who cares about his men and gets your respect for it. That's not changed either. Now all you three," she continued, indicating to Book II, Mother and Bigfoot, "And Sanchez already knew. We're all just trying to understand here."

Nobody spoke again after that.

Meanwhile, still inside the courtroom, Schofield sat in the witness chair. His lawyer walked over to him cautiously and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Come on," he said as he led Schofield back to his chair. The lawyer looked frazzled and Shane still looked quite dazed, as though he couldn't quite believe he'd actually done it.

"I wish you'd told me you were going to do that," the lawyer eventually said.

"Wasn't really sure I was going to until I had," Schofield replied.

"Well, we can only wait now."

And the pair of them sat in brooding silence until the judge and observers filed back in.

The judge sat down and silence fell over the courtroom again. Schofield looked up at him; his crinkled eyes looked older and sad. He tried to convey with his own eyes that it was okay, he knew what had to happen, but he wasn't sure he was successful.

"Will the defendant please rise," he said, his booming voice seemed to have lost some of its commanding nature.

Schofield stood; steadying himself for what he was sure was coming his way.

The judge looked straight at him for a long moment and shook his head barely perceptibly before dropping his eyes and reading off a piece of paper set in front of him, in a resigned tone,

"Captain Shane M. Schofield, on the charge and specification of Duelling, this court finds you not guilty. On the charge and specification of Conduct Unbecoming an Officer, this court finds you guilty. You will not proceed to court martial under the Uniform Code of Military Justice as you are found to be in noncompliance to paragraph 645 of the United States Code, section B.2 which explicitly states that a member of the armed forces may be separated from the armed forces if that member has stated that he or she is homosexual. You are hereby stripped of all rank and privileges and dishonourably discharged from the United States Marine Corp."

As the court behind him erupted again, Schofield wanted nothing more than to sink back into his chair and collapse. His knees felt weak but he stood there anyway, straight-backed and tall. After all, he was a marine, no matter what they said or did. They say that if you ask a naval or army officer what they do, they will say 'I'm in the navy' or 'I'm in the army,' but if you ask a marine the same question, the answer will be 'I _am_ a marine.' They could throw him out of the marines but they couldn't take the marine out of the Scarecrow.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Alright, so it wasn't the last because I decided to split that chapter into two chapters.

Please don't kill me! I couldn't realistically just suddenly let everything turn out alright but I promise I'll put it right in the sequel, which I guess I have to post because you'd have every right to kill me if I left the story there. This really is the last chapter, unless I decide to post a little epilogue to sort of introduce the sequel.

There's only one more thing that I meant to say, and I probably should have put it in the first chapter or whatever, but this story was inspired by the song "Superman" by five for fighting. Epic song, you should listen to it but if you do, listen to the boyce avenue cover, in my opinion it's better than the original.

Ta.

Chapter 11

He wasn't sure how long he stood there stoically but all of a sudden it seemed, the courtroom behind him was empty save for the two lawyers and the judge. As the prosecuting lawyer swept past them with a satisfied smirk on his face, Shane turned to his own lawyer.

"I, um, never got your name," he said.

The lawyer looked up from his papers, face still flustered. "It's William," he said, "William Hastings, my parents were history buffs." He laughed a hollow little laugh.

Shane didn't get it, but he laughed as well anyway.

"Thank you," he said as the lawyer picked up his briefcase.

Hastings looked at him as though he was going to say something but then he shut his mouth, shook his head a little and left, the large door that led out of the courtroom echoing behind him.

Staring aimlessly at the swinging door, he saw a figure approach him out of the corner of his eye. It was the judge. "Why don't you come with me, son," he said, "There are still a few technicalities to discuss." Schofield had a vague feeling that the lawyer was meant to stay with him but he allowed the judge to place a comforting hand on his shoulder and steer him towards a small room set off to the side anyway.

When they emerged a short while later from the warm wood-panelled room into the stark and severe courtroom, Shane wondered if his unit was still waiting for him.  
><em>No,<em> he corrected himself mentally,_ Not your unit anymore._

"For what it's worth," the judge said to him, "I'm sorry."

Schofield shook his proffered hand and watched as the judge disappeared out the little door behind the bench that led to his private chambers.

He didn't want to spend another second in this room but he didn't know what might be waiting outside. His unit, his friends and their opinions, but he would have to face them eventually and delaying it would only make it worse.

He pushed open the door a little and peered out, he didn't see anyone there in the corridor so he opened it fully and stepped out. Only to be enveloped from behind by Mother's massive frame. He leant back into the strength of her grip, knowing she would hold him up, allowing one moment of weakness through.

"I sent the others back to the barracks," she said after a moment, "thought you might want to be alone for a bit."

"Do you want to see them now, get it over with?" She asked.

He nodded and moved away from her. They walked back to the barracks mostly in silence. When they reached the hall where most of the other marines in his unit lived, he leant up and pressed a swift kiss to her cheek. He was pleased to see that even if everything else in his life had turned upside down, he could still make her smile.

"Nice try buster," she said, "but you're not distracting me. Now, in you go." She flung open the door and placing one large hand on his back, pushed him into the room.

He tumbled in slightly ungracefully and abruptly everybody stopped talking, as people always do when the person they're talking about enters the room.

He blanched at the sudden onslaught of their eyes, spinning around to get away from them, he ran straight into Mother's outstretched arm.  
>"Oh no," she said to him, "you're not escaping that easily." She spun him back around and addressed the others, "If anybody here has a problem with the Scarecrow, they can bring it up with me."<p>

Funnily enough, nobody took her up on that offer.

Unsure of what to say, he stood there awkwardly, absentmindedly running a hand through his short hair.

It was Sanchez who broke the uneasy silence. He stood and walked over to Schofield.  
>Standing directly in front of him, with his hands in his pockets, he said without his usual eloquence, "I – um - I'm really sorry."<p>

Shane nodded his head in thanks and aloud, he said, "Don't worry 'bout it, that's the way it's got to be."

He offered his hand but was surprised when Sanchez not only shook it but also stepped forward, close to him and brought his other arm around to clasp his back in an, albeit brief, hug.

Nobody would call them friends yet, there was still too much bad blood between them to be fixed easily and the gesture was not intended as such. Rather, Sanchez knew that the small contact drew Schofield back into the fold from which he had unwittingly been alienated. They might not have been friends, but Sanchez felt he owed Schofield at least that small kindness.

From behind them, Skip's voice rang out, "Hey Scarecrow, you heard the one about the gay magician?"

He looked at her, her eyes sparkled with mischievousness and he couldn't help but laugh.

"He vanished with a poof," he finished.

"So you're really gay then?" Rebound still sounded a little confused.

Schofield, laughing, replied, "Yeah Rebound, I think I am."

"Wait, do you only think so, or are you like… sure?"

Book placed his hands on Schofield's shoulders as he shook his head in amused exasperation and steered him towards the kitchen. "It's an expression, you idiot. He's pretty damn sure. Lestways, I hope you are," he said, turning to Schofield and grinning before disappearing to get a drink.

The ice in the room thoroughly broken, everybody returned to their easy conversation. Some of them slapped Schofield on the back in commiseration as Book II appeared in front of him, holding a couple of beers. He gladly accepted one as they settled themselves on a couple of barstools next to the kitchen island. Schofield hadn't been inside the barracks before seeing as he didn't live on base. He assumed the room they were currently in was something of a common room. There were a few saggy couches around a television, a battered foosball table in one corner, and a small kitchenette where they currently sat, for the use of people who didn't feel like mess food.

He figured he would be spending a lot more time here in the immediate future. When the judge had taken him aside, he had explained that upon Schofield's discharge, his unit would normally be disbanded. However, as they were the majority of the way through the training programme, this would not be in the best interests of the corp. Instead, Schofield's discharge would be suspended for the remaining two months of their training whilst they searched for someone to replace him as CO. In the meantime, he could live on base, in the barracks. He wasn't sure how he felt about that yet.

"Hardest bits over, now you've just got to face tomorrow and then everyone'll forget all about it," Book II said, looking at Schofield over his own bottle.

"Yeah," he replied, glancing up at Book, "I just hope I haven't fucked my life up too badly."

"You haven't," Mother said with profound simplicity as she sidled up and invited herself into the conversation. "How're you feeling? That ought to tell you how badly you're screwed."

He smiled to himself before answering. "You're right," he said, nodding his head. "Just feels like me."

"Well in that case, you're definitely fucked."

Laughing, they clinked bottles softly under the flickering fluorescent light.

"Yeah," he thought to himself, "Somehow, it's going to be alright."

_fin_


End file.
